Chapter 10 - The Eve of the Gala
By Friday evening, the Oakridge Convention Center ballroom had been transformed into an ethereal, winter-themed sanctuary of ivory silk, frosted crystal, and cascading white orchids.
Four hundred and fifty place settings gleamed under the soft, warm illumination of the crystal chandeliers. At every seat rested an embossed menu card detailing a four-course gourmet dinner—each item certified, batch-tested, and prepared in a facility completely devoid of tree nuts, peanuts, and trace seed contaminants.
At Dock Four, Marcus Kane and his team stood watch beside the industrial service elevators, cross-checking every crate of flatware, every bottle of champagne, and every uniformed server who entered the floor.
I stood on the center stage, a clipboard in the crook of my arm, running through the audiovisual cues with the production technician. Michael had brought the girls by two hours earlier to see the room before the guests arrived. Lily had gasped, her eyes wide as saucers as she stared at the fairy lights strung through the towering birch branches, whispering to Michael, “Mom made this? Mom is like a queen.”
That single whisper had wiped away every ounce of stress, every sleepless night, and every toxic text message of the past seven days.
“Jessica,” Marcus’s voice sounded over my two-way radio, sharp and low. “Can you come down to Service Corridor B? We have a situation at the secondary vendor entrance.”
My stomach tightened, but I didn't run. I calmly handed my clipboard to the stage manager, smoothed the front of my tailored black jumpsuit, and walked down the side steps toward the service hallway.
When I pushed through the heavy double fire doors into Corridor B, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Marcus Kane and two private security guards were standing in front of the commercial freight elevator, blocking a woman who was clutching an oversized plastic bakery crate to her chest.
She was wearing a generic black catering apron, hair pulled under a white disposable hairnet, and dark cloth shoes. But the frantic, wild look in her eyes was unmistakable.
It was Brittany.
She looked unhinged. Her designer makeup was gone, replaced by raw red blotches around her nose and cheeks. Her hands, gripping the handles of the plastic transport box, were white-knuckled and trembling.
“Brittany,” I said, my voice echoing off the concrete cinderblock walls.
She flinched, looking past Marcus’s broad shoulder at me. “Jessica… you have to listen to me. Please. You have to let me put these out.”
Marcus glanced back at me, his hand resting casually near his utility belt. “She used a forged maintenance pass to get through the basement parking gate, Mrs. Brooks. Claims she’s delivering ‘supplemental artisanal garnishes’ contracted by the committee.”
“I didn't forge it!” Brittany shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly in the industrial corridor. “Someone gave it to me! Jessica, you don't understand… if this event goes off perfectly for you, I’m ruined! Do you know what they’re saying about me on the internet? Brides are demanding their deposits back! The state licensing board sent an investigator to my apartment this afternoon! I have seventy thousand dollars in personal guarantees that Dad signed over to me!”
She took an unstable step forward, holding the plastic crate out like an offering.
“I brought the dessert garnishes! The Vance Foundation committee always uses custom pralines for the coffee service! It’s tradition! If Evelyn sees you changed the menu, she’ll dock your fee! I was trying to fix it! I was trying to save you!”
A cold, sickening dread washed over me.
“Pralines,” I whispered.
Pralines. Made of crushed, caramelized pecans.
She had forged her way into the service elevator of a four-hundred-person medical benefit for children with respiratory and allergen conditions, carrying a crate full of tree nuts, intending to secretly place them on the coffee service trays to prove that my “nut-free menu” was an unnecessary, amateur mistake.
Or worse: to sabotage the Vance Gala so catastrophically that Evelyn would fire me, sue me, and restore Brittany’s narrative that Jessica was incompetent.
“Open the crate, Marcus,” I said, my voice dropping so low it was barely audible above the hum of the HVAC units.
Marcus stepped forward, his massive hand clamping over the edge of the plastic lid, and ripped it off.
Inside sat twelve large, silver catering trays, neatly stacked. Each tray was filled with hundreds of dark, chocolate-dipped candied pecan clusters, dustings of crushed nut crumbs clinging to the cellophane wrap.
Brittany backed up against the concrete wall, her breathing ragged, her eyes darting between Marcus and me like a trapped animal.
“I was helping…” she whimpered, the lie sounding pathetic even to her own ears. “It’s what high-end parties have… people expect luxury…”
“You were going to contaminate the entire service floor,” I said, taking two slow steps toward her. The anger that had fueled me for days didn't explode; it calcified into absolute, unbreakable granite. “You were going to risk Clara Vance’s life, and the lives of dozens of children in that room, just to prove you were right.”
“No! I didn't mean—”
“Who gave you the service pass, Brittany?” I interrupted, cutting through her babble like a scalpel. “These passes are serialized. Marcus issued them at noon. Who gave you the badge?”
Brittany pressed her lips together, her chin quivering, refusing to speak.
Marcus reached into his pocket, pulled out the lanyard Brittany had been wearing, and flipped the white plastic card over.
Printed across the bottom of the security badge was the sponsor clearance code: *SPONSOR PASS — RESERVED BY COMMITTEE DONOR 04.*
Marcus looked at his clipboard log, his jaw tightening.
“Donor 04,” Marcus said, looking up at me. “That’s not Brittany’s name, Jessica.”
“Whose name is it, Marcus?” I asked, though in my gut, I already knew the answer.
Marcus read the line from the official Vance Foundation donor list:
“Sherry Brooks. She bought an honorary donor ticket three weeks ago through the civic auxiliary. She picked up the service pass at Will Call forty minutes ago.”
The silence in the concrete corridor was absolute.
Sherry hadn't just stood on my porch weeping about family loyalty. She hadn't just begged Michael to save Richard’s legacy. She had taken a donor credential, handed it to her desperate, unhinged daughter, and sent her into the service corridors with a crate of lethal allergens to detonate my career on the biggest night of my life.
I looked at Brittany, who was sliding down the cinderblock wall into a huddled, sobbing heap beside the crate of poisoned candy.
Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and looked at Marcus Kane.
“Call the Oakridge Police Department,” I said calmly. “Tell the chief to send two patrol cruisers to the VIP entrance. And tell Dave Vance to meet me in the main lobby.”
I looked down at the plastic security badge lying on the cold concrete floor, Sherry Brooks’s name gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.
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The gala doors were set to open in thirty minutes. Four hundred and fifty guests, including Sherry and her elite social circle, were currently lining up on the red carpet outside, expecting a night of polite society and family reconciliation.
They were about to get a reckoning they would never forget.