Chapter 3 - The Terrace of Ice
At 1:45 p.m., the pale winter sun cast long, cold shadows across the stone balustrades of the west dining terrace overlooking Long Island Sound.
A small circular table of wrought iron and glass was set with white linen, a silver fruit bowl, and two untouched crystal goblets of chilled San Pellegrino.
Vanessa Sterling sat in an upholstered wicker armchair, wearing an exquisite ivory cashmere wrap dress, her blonde hair styled in a salon blowout, her diamond engagement ring catching the sunlight. She was smiling as she reviewed a luxury wedding catalog, tapping her French-manicured fingernails against the glass tabletop.
"Adrian, darling," Vanessa purred as the heavy double glass terrace doors clicked open behind her. "The florist in Manhattan confirmed the white orchids. If we finalize the seating chart for the state senators before three o'clock, we can—"
Her voice died mid-sentence.
Vanessa froze in her chair.
Walking onto the stone terrace was Adrian Moretti, dressed in his black tailored shirt and trousers, radiating the terrifying, uncontested dominance of an apex predator closing in on its prey.
Walking beside him, holding his left hand with calm, sovereign dignity, was Grace Miller.
She was no longer wearing the stained apron of a domestic cleaner. She wore a tailored dark navy wool coat over an ivory silk blouse, her dark hair swept back in an elegant chignon, her posture straight and fearless.
And walking on his right, holding Adrian’s other hand with proud, eight-year-old grace, was Lily—wearing her red cotton dress and shiny black patent shoes.
Following behind them were Arthur Ross, Detective Marcus Thorne of the State Police Major Economic Crimes Unit, and two armed tactical operators from Moretti Sovereign Security.
The color drained from Vanessa Sterling’s face in a slow, catastrophic wave, leaving her skin the sallow, grayish hue of damp drywall. Her diamond-clad hands tightened around the wedding catalog until the heavy gloss paper crumpled beneath her knuckles.
"Adrian...?" Vanessa stammered, her voice pitching up into a sharp, brittle register. "What... what is the meaning of this? Why are domestic servants and state police officers on our private terrace?"
Adrian did not answer with words.
He walked over to the wrought-iron table, pulled out the chair directly across from her, and sat down with slow, deliberate, terrifying grace.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the cut-crystal Bohemian wine glass containing the hair-thin crescent moon scratch, and set it on the glass table directly in front of Vanessa.
May you like
Then, using his linen napkin, he picked up the duplicate glass from his place setting inside the dining room and placed it two inches away from her silver fork.
"Drink from your glass, Vanessa," Adrian whispered.
