Arriving at the Gala

Lily’s desperate words glowed on the screen, a digital scream for help that Sarah clutched to her chest as Celia swerved the station wagon into the shadow of the Oakhaven Grand Hotel. The looming Victorian-era building was a fortress of limestone and golden light, the driveway choked with town cars and sleek SUVs. Security guards in black suits with coiled earpieces patrolled the perimeter, their faces stone-cold beneath the hotel’s portico.

"She’s taking her to the gala," Sarah whispered, her thumb tracing the glass of the phone. "Lily’s lucid, Celia. She’s fighting back."

"Then we have to be faster than the police," Celia said, bypassing the main entrance and looping the car toward the service road that fed the industrial kitchens. "The front is a trap. Elena knows you’re coming, and she’s weaponized every uniform in this town. You’re the crazy sister who broke into her home. You won't make it five feet past the lobby."

Celia killed the engine behind a row of overflowing industrial dumpsters. The air here was a sharp mix of damp asphalt and expensive catering prep—garlic, rosemary, and the cold, metallic scent of the rain. Sarah checked her tote bag one last time, the weight of the black leather ledger a reassuring anchor against her ribs.

"How do we get in?" Sarah asked, glancing at the heavy steel door where a young guard stood, checking badges with a bored expression.

"I spent twenty years in the Junior League with this hotel's owner," Celia said, smoothing her severe gray blazer. "And that guard's mother used to be my father's secretary. Stay low. Don't speak until we're inside."

Celia stepped out of the car, her posture shifting into the rigid, aristocratic elegance she had spent a lifetime trying to outrun. Sarah followed, staying a half-step behind her aunt’s shoulder, the midnight-blue silk of her dress rustling with every limping step. Her ankle was a white-hot pillar of pain, but she shoved it into a dark corner of her mind. Lily was inside.

The guard straightened as they approached, his hand moving toward his belt. "Ma'am, this is a restricted entrance. Deliveries only."

Celia didn't stop. She looked at him with the chilling, dismissive authority of a woman who had never known a locked door. "Don't be absurd, Marcus. I’m Celia Vance. I was supposed to be met at the loading dock for the silent auction drop-off. Is your mother still struggling with that hip?"

The guard hesitated, his professional mask flickering. "Uh, yes, Mrs. Vance. She is. But the Chief said—"

"The Chief is a man who forgets that I funded his last three charity drives," Celia interrupted, her voice a razor dipped in honey. She stepped into his personal space, her hand disappearing into the pocket of her blazer.

Sarah held her breath, her heart hammering against the ledger. One wrong move and the sirens would be on them. One slip and Lily would be drugged back into compliance before the keynote even began.

'We need to talk,' Celia told the guard, slipping him a hundred-dollar bill. The door clicked open.