Chapter 7

The cab dropped Edith off at the grand entrance of the Plaza Hotel. The Dakota Ayala Foundation was hosting its annual fundraising gala, an event Edith, as Mrs. Baldwin, could not avoid. It was the kind of place where wealthy families laundered their reputations with charity.

Edith walked up to the front desk. "I'm here to see Milo Snider."

The receptionist, a woman with a tight bun and an even tighter smile, tapped away at her keyboard. "And you are?"

"His sister. Edith Woods."

The woman's smile faltered. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Visitation requires the approval of the legal guardian, Mr. Alistair Stephenson."

Edith took a deep breath and stepped onto the red carpet. She wore a simple, elegant black gown of her own design-understated, but flawless. A suit of armor.

The ballroom was a sea of jewels and fake smiles. She felt hundreds of eyes on her, whispering, judging. The unworthy replacement for the sainted Dakota.

"Milo," Edith called out softly as she approached.

He didn't react. She walked around to the front of his chair and knelt down. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth.

Panic seized her. She took his hand. It was limp, completely devoid of strength. She looked at his arm and saw the faint, bruised puncture mark in the crook of his elbow.

They were drugging him. Alistair was keeping him sedated, turning him into a vegetable.

"Kassandra Ayala, radiant as ever, was holding court by the grand staircase. Giovanni was at her side, a dark, handsome shadow.

"Edith," Kassandra said, her voice dripping with false sweetness as Edith approached. "You came. I'm so glad you're supporting Dakota's legacy."

Edith's heart shattered. She pressed her forehead against his knee, tears burning her eyes. "Of course," she whispered fiercely. "It's a wonderful cause."

She stormed back inside and cornered a nurse. "Why is he so heavily sedated? He's supposed to be in physical therapy!"

The nurse gave her a placating smile. "Mr. Snider gets agitated easily. The medication is for his own safety, as per Dr. Frye's orders and Mr. Stephenson's instructions."

Kassandra's smile was a weapon. Giovanni's presence was a weight on her chest. She couldn't fight them here. They were on their home turf. She had to get out, had to find another way.

She excused herself, the anger burning a hole in her gut. She needed to find her contact, a key investor she was trying to win over for Dreamscape Atelier.

She made her way through the crowd, her eyes scanning for her target.

As she walked down the corridor of the VIP wing toward the exit, she heard a familiar voice.

"Giovanni, I feel so dizzy."

Edith froze. She pressed herself against the wall, peering around the corner.

In a private suite, the door left ajar, Giovanni Baldwin was crouching down in front of a plush armchair. His face was a mask of tender concern, his hand gently stroking the hair of the woman sitting in it.

Kassandra Ayala. She looked pale and fragile, a delicate flower wilting under the strain. She leaned into Giovanni's touch, her eyes fluttering.

"The doctor said my heart condition is getting worse because of all the stress," Kassandra whimpered, her voice trembling.

Giovanni's expression hardened for a fraction of a second before softening again. "It's my fault," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I shouldn't have let the Woods get near you again. I'll handle Edith. You just focus on getting better."

Edith watched the display, a bitter taste filling her mouth. Kassandra Ayala, the woman who was manipulating her husband's grief, was playing the victim in a luxury suite. Her family, the true victims of the Baldwins' machinations, were being vilified.

The hypocrisy was staggering. The man who had destroyed her life for this woman was now cooing over a fake heart condition.

Edith didn't feel sad. She didn't feel jealous. She felt a cold, calculating rage settle over her like armor. Giovanni didn't care about truth or justice. He only cared about the narrative that suited him.

She turned and walked away, her footsteps silent on the plush carpet. She wouldn't beg anymore. She wouldn't plead. She would fight.

She stepped out into the dazzling ballroom, pulling out her phone. She opened a browser and typed in a search: "Cristobal Cruz, CEO of OmniCorp."

The results populated. She scrolled past the big firms, the ones Giovanni probably owned. Her eyes caught a name near the top. A woman she knew. A woman who didn't back down from a fight.

The search result showed his current location: The St. Regis bar, two blocks away.

Edith tapped the number. It was time to go to war.