Chapter 2 - The Ice in the Winter Sea
The silence that followed Richard’s declaration was absolute. You could hear the distant splashing of the lake fountain and the gentle hum of the patio string lights.
Brittany let out another high-pitched giggle, leaning her head against Richard’s shoulder. "Honestly, Richard, you shouldn't be so hard on her. Poor Clover probably couldn't afford a real man after the settlement we gave her. She had to settle for someone from Craigslist."
A wave of uncomfortable murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some of our former friends—people I had hosted for dinner parties, people whose children I had bought birthday gifts for—looked away, unable to meet my eyes. Their cowardice stung, but it wasn't surprising. In high society, loyalty was a currency traded only with those who held power.
And right now, Richard Sterling held the power. Or so he thought.
I felt a sudden warmth against my lower back as Daniel’s hand shifted slightly, his fingers pressing reassuringly into my spine. He didn't flinch. He didn't look flustered or embarrassed. He simply took a slow, deliberate breath, stepping smoothly from the shadows of the patio archway directly into the glaring amber spotlight of Richard’s attention.
Daniel’s handsome face smoothed into an expression of chilling, absolute serenity. His gaze turned to ice—a cold, piercing stare that seemed to drop the temperature on the patio by ten degrees.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. When Daniel spoke, his deep, resonant baritone carried across the stone floor with the effortless, crushing authority of a courtroom judge.
"An actor, Mr. Sterling?" Daniel said, his tone dripping with quiet, devastating polite contempt. "That is a remarkably imaginative conclusion for a man whose entire professional existence is built on the precarious foundation of fabricated balance sheets."
Richard’s smug smirk flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flash of genuine confusion. He blinked, narrowing his eyes as he looked Daniel up and down, trying to place him. "Who the hell are you? Some washed-up model trying to play corporate? I asked you a question, pal. What's your hourly rate? Did Clover pay you in coupons?"
The crowd chuckled nervously, desperate for Richard to restore the cruel equilibrium of the evening.
Daniel didn't blink. He reached inside the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored midnight-blue jacket. The movement was unhurried, almost lazy, yet every eye on the patio was locked onto his hand.
He withdrew a sleek, matte-black velvet case—the kind typically reserved for high-end Cartier jewelry or federal credentials.
"I am not an actor, Mr. Sterling," Daniel said smoothly, stepping closer to the edge of the stone terrace, putting himself directly between Richard and me. "And as for my hourly rate, it’s paid by the United States Department of the Treasury."
Daniel popped the brass clasp of the velvet case with his thumb.
May you like
He didn't open a jewelry box. He flipped the case forward, displaying a gold-embossed federal badge bearing the Department of Justice seal, alongside a laminated identification card identifying him not as a model, but as Daniel Cross, Lead Federal Forensic Auditor.
The air on the patio seemed to vanish all at once.
