Chapter 9
The estate was ablaze with light. Hundreds of candles flickered, and the blue and silver decorations transformed the grand ballroom into a glittering ice palace.
Kirsten stood at the entrance, a statue carved from obsidian in a black velvet gown. She greeted each guest with a perfect, practiced smile, her posture regal, her eyes empty.
The air was thick with whispers. The guests, New York's elite, moved between the champagne bar and the caviar station, their eyes darting from Kirsten, the gracious hostess, to Jasmin, the guest of honor.
Jasmin, in a virginal white dress, clung to Damon's arm, looking fragile and overwhelmed. Damon paraded her around the room, introducing her to business partners and society matrons, his hand never leaving the small of her back. He was presenting her. Anointing her.
Kirsten watched them, the stem of her champagne flute threatening to snap between her fingers. But her smile never wavered.
The party reached its peak. The string quartet quieted. Damon stepped onto the small stage, a microphone in his hand. A hush fell over the room.
Kirsten stood near the back, her heart beginning to pound a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. The show was about to begin.
"Thank you all for coming tonight," Damon's voice resonated through the ballroom. "Tonight is not just a celebration of a birthday, but the celebration of a new beginning."
He smiled, a brilliant, public-relations smile.
"I am proud to announce the formation of the Jasmin Myers Foundation, a new branch of the Cooper Holdings charitable arm, dedicated to providing aid and support to the survivors of natural disasters."
Polite, enthusiastic applause filled the room. Damon beckoned for Jasmin to join him on stage. She went, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she hugged him.
Then, he reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a flat, dark blue velvet box. He opened it.
The gasp from the crowd was audible.
Inside, nestled on a bed of white satin, was a necklace. A cascade of diamonds culminating in a sapphire the size of a robin's egg. It was the Cooper Sapphire, a legendary stone that had been in his family for a century.
Kirsten felt the blood drain from her face. She remembered Gwenda Cooper, the family matriarch, showing her the necklace once. "The Cooper Sapphire," Gwenda had said, her voice crisp and formal, "is passed down the patriarchal line, always intended for the wife of the heir." To her.
Now, in front of two hundred people, Damon lifted the priceless heirloom from its box. With a look of profound tenderness, he fastened it around Jasmin's neck.
It was a coronation. And an execution.
Every eye in the room flickered toward Kirsten. She could feel their gazes on her-a mixture of pity, morbid curiosity, and thinly veiled contempt. She was a public spectacle. The wife being replaced in real time.
She lifted her chin. Her back, which had begun to slump, straightened into a rod of steel.
On the stage, Jasmin touched the sapphire at her throat, her eyes finding Kirsten's in the crowd. A small, almost imperceptible smile of triumph touched her lips.
Kirsten met that victorious gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if in approval.
Damon eventually made his way through the crowd to her, a glass of champagne in his hand. He had the look of a man expecting a scene.
"A brilliant speech, Mr. Cooper," she said, raising her glass to his in a mock toast.
His brow furrowed, his plan to provoke her into a public meltdown clearly failing. "You're not upset?"
"It's your foundation. Your money," she said, her voice light. She drained her glass. "Why would I be upset?"
She turned and walked away from him, heading for the cool air of the terrace. The night breeze felt good on her heated skin. In a shadowy corner, she overheard two women she vaguely knew from a charity board.
"I give it six months," one whispered. "He'll have her out on the street with nothing."
Kirsten didn't hide. She stepped out of the shadows and smiled at them. "You're probably right," she said, her voice pleasant. "But you have it backwards. I'm the one showing him the door."
The women froze, their faces a comical picture of shock. Kirsten left them there and pulled out her phone.
She texted Eleanor.
Tomorrow morning. First thing. Serve him.
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