Chapter 13 - The Dinner Trap
By Friday evening, Beatrice Sterling believed she had found salvation.
Despite the internet firestorm, Beatrice still clung to her final shred of social currency: her membership in the Desert Orchid Philanthropic Society, an exclusive social club of wealthy valley matriarchs. Tonight was the annual Midsummer Charity Gala at the Phoenician Resort in Scottsdale.
Beatrice had managed to borrow a vintage evening gown from a sympathetic distant relative who hadn't seen the news, applied heavy foundation to cover her stress-induced breakouts, and convinced Mason to escort her in a rented economy sedan.
“This is where we turn the tide, Mason,” Beatrice whispered as they walked into the opulent, crystal-chandeliered ballroom. “The Thorne woman doesn't have friends here. These are old-money families. If we secure the support of Eleanor Davenport, the society president, she will force Valerie to come to the table. Old money protects its own.”
Mason, wearing an ill-fitting suit he had salvaged from the storage unit, swallowed hard. “Mom, I don't think this is a good idea. The Blackwood Capital payment was due at five today. Julian Vance has been calling my burner phone every twenty minutes.”
“Ignore him!” Beatrice snapped. “Once we get Eleanor on our side, everything will fall into place!”
They glided toward the VIP table where Eleanor Davenport—a formidable seventy-five-year-old copper heiress—sat surrounded by the valley’s most elite patrons.
“Eleanor, darling!” Beatrice purred, plastering on her most aristocratic smile. “What a magnificent evening! I simply had to come and support the children’s hospital—”
Eleanor Davenport slowly lowered her champagne flute. The conversation at the table died instantly.
“Beatrice,” Eleanor said, her voice like cut glass. “I am astonished you have the audacity to show your face in this room.”
Beatrice faltered. “Eleanor… you must have seen the malicious slander that Thorne woman posted online. It was entirely doctored! Mason and I are the victims of a calculated—”
“We saw the video, Beatrice,” Eleanor cut in, her tone dripping with frigid disdain. “All of us did. My grandson works in digital forensics. The footage was completely authentic. You struck a woman in her own home over an allowance. You behaved like an uncivilized gutter brawler.”
Gasps rippled through the surrounding tables. Beatrice turned crimson.
“And furthermore,” a commanding voice echoed from the grand entrance of the ballroom. “She did it while living on stolen money.”
The crowd parted.
Valerie Thorne walked in.
She was breathtaking. Dressed in a floor-length emerald silk backless gown, her hair falling in elegant waves, her posture radiating absolute power. On her arm was Arthur Pendelton, the CEO of Meridian Logistics, accompanied by two members of the Arizona State Judicial Review Board.
Beatrice looked like she had seen a ghost. “Valerie… you… you aren't on the guest list!”
“Actually, Beatrice,” Arthur Pendelton announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the silent ballroom, “Valerie didn't just make the guest list. As of 4:00 PM today, Valerie Thorne became the primary underwriter of tonight’s gala, contributing a half-million-dollar endowment in her family’s name.”
Eleanor Davenport stood up and offered Valerie a warm, respectful nod. “Welcome, Valerie. We are honored by your generosity.”
Valerie walked up to the trembling Beatrice, her emerald eyes cold and merciless.
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“Your membership to the Desert Orchid Society was revoked by unanimous board vote thirty minutes ago, Beatrice,” Valerie whispered, just loud enough for the entire VIP table to hear. “And the security guards behind you are here to ensure you don't steal the silverware on your way out.”
***