“As we gather here tomorrow to celebrate?—”
PING
My phone’s notification cuts through the quiet ballroomlike a knife. Hans stumbles mid-sentence, his eyes finding mine across the room. Heat flushes my cheeks as every head turns toward me.
“Sorry, so sorry,” I whisper, fumbling for my phone to silence it. “Please continue, Hans.”
He recovers gracefully, but I feel the weight of disapproving stares from the head table. Josie shoots me a questioning look while Egret’s sisters exchange knowing glances that suggest this is exactly the kind of behavior they’d expect from an omega who thinks she can balance a career and family responsibilities.
I should put the phone away. I should focus on Hans’s heartfelt words about family and new beginnings. But the notification sits there, taunting me, and before I can stop myself, I’m surreptitiously sliding the screen open under the tablecloth.
The message is from my assistant, Celia.
Celia: Urgent - found out who outbid you on the Chelsea space. Call me.
My heart pounds as I type back quickly.
Trinity: Can’t call. Just tell me.
The response comes after a long enough pause, that I’m already pulling up her number in my contact list.
Celia: MBH Investments. Closed deal this afternoon. 20% over asking.
The phone nearly slips from my numb fingers. MBH Investments. The name is familiar enough that it more than niggles at my subconscious like an itch I just have to scratch. Keeping my phone half-under the tablecloth, I do a quick web search.
And confirm my worst suspicions.
Their professional headshots smile smugly at me from the about page on their website. MBH Investments, as inMahoney, Bowie, and Haxfield. Egret, Saren, and Brendin’s investment firm.
They bought my venue. The perfect event space I’ve been dreaming about for months, the one that would have let me expand into a completely new revenue stream, hire my own in-house vendors and host larger events, like corporate retreats or conventions.
Those assholes swooped in and stole it right out from under me.
“Trinity?” Matheo’s voice is low, concerned. He must have noticed my face going pale. “Everything all right?”
This is my own damn fault, letting any information slip at all. I remember in exquisite detail telling everyone all about it at that family dinner weeks ago, letting myself get tricked into thinking that they were just listening politely rather than scheming to humiliate me even more than they already have.
Hans continues his speech, something about the joy of watching children find their place in the world, but his words fade into background noise. All I can think about is that venue—the exposed brick walls, perfect acoustics, how the afternoon light streams through those tall windows.
Beautiful and never going to be mine.
I can’t fucking take this anymore.
I wait as long as I can, my anger mounting with each passing minute. Hans finishes his speech to polite applause, and gradually people begin to move around the ballroom—some heading to the bar, others stepping onto the terrace for fresh air, a few already making their way toward the exits.
When I spot Egret at the bar, ordering what looks like his third whiskey of the evening, I make my decision.
I push back from the table, ignoring Matheo’s concerned glance. My heels click against the marblefloor with each determined step, the sound sharp enough to cut through the ambient chatter. Egret doesn’t notice my approach until I’m directly beside him, close enough that the bartender automatically assumes I’m ordering, too.
“We need to talk,” I say, my voice deadly calm.
“Trinity.” Egret turns, eyebrows raised at my tone. “Enjoying the evening?”
“Cut the shit, Egret.” I lean against the bar, fixing him with a stare that could melt steel. “MBH Investments. Really?”
His face doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Schwartzman Center. You outbid me by twenty percent.” My voice remains level, professional, but fury burns beneath each word. “My assistant just sent me the details.”
