Chapter 2 - THE SOUND OF TINY HANDS
The applause in the vast room began to taper off as Vincent lowered his glass to the white linen cloth. Guests were already turning back to their appetizers, and the string quartet in the balcony prepared to lift their bows for a waltz.
Then, cutting through the murmuring lull, came a sound entirely foreign to the scripted decorum of a high-society gala.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
It was the soft, rhythmic patter of tiny hands—two small, unhurried palms meeting in an innocent, enthusiastic beat.
Vincent’s head snapped toward the sound.
In a room where men whispered and bodyguards stood at rigid attention, an unscripted noise was an anomaly. His dark eyes, perpetually calculating threats, tracked the rhythm across the polished parquet floor toward the western archway.
His breath stopped in his throat.
Standing just past the shadow of the drapery was a four-year-old girl. She looked like a tiny, living porcelain doll, dressed in an exquisite pale-blue tulle princess dress layered with delicate organza that shimmered beneath the crystal chandeliers. Long, rich brown curls bounced around her shoulders, framing an angelic, rosy-cheeked face. Tucked securely beneath her left arm was an old, well-loved plush teddy bear with a matching blue satin ribbon knotted around its neck. She was clapping with pure, childish joy, watching the sparkling crystal lights above.
Beside her, holding her small right hand with a firm, protective grip, was the woman standing in the archway.
Vincent’s vision blurred. The crystal chandeliers, the six hundred guests, the woman in burgundy beside him—all of it dissolved into a deafening, white-noise roar.
Claire.
She was breathtaking. In her early thirties, Claire carried an unshakeable, regal poise that had only deepened in her absence. Her long, dark brunette hair was styled in soft, cascading waves over one bare shoulder. She wore a sparkling pale-blue evening gown that mirrored her daughter’s dress—the fabric clinging to her slender, graceful silhouette before pooling onto the polished floorboards like liquid moonlight. Her skin was luminous, fair, and rosy, but her hazel eyes—eyes that had once looked at him with an ocean of devotion—were dead, flat, and colder than a frozen lake.
Vincent stood up.
The motion was so sudden, so violent, that his heavy mahogany chair scraped against the dais with a harsh, metallic screech. His crystal champagne flute tipped, golden wine spilling across the pristine linen, staining the white fabric, but he did not look down.
His jaw locked so hard that a sharp muscle twitched beneath his trimmed beard. His pupils dilated until they were almost entirely black, the blood draining from his lips as he stared across the fifty feet of open space.
“Claire?”
May you like
The syllable was barely more than a ragged exhalation, but in the pressurized quiet of the head table, it sounded like a detonator clicking into place.
Beside him, Sophia froze. The confident, glittering smile on her face faltered, her hand slipping from Vincent’s shoulder as her eyes followed his gaze toward the archway. When she saw the woman in the pale-blue gown, the color rapidly evaporated from her cheeks.
