Chapter 18
At eight o’clock that evening, a massive charity gala was being held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on 5th Avenue.
Julian Vance was the keynote speaker for the event, surrounded by Manhattan’s most prominent political figures.
Emma walked through the museum’s grand marble hall wearing a stunning black velvet evening gown provided by William.
Her hair was styled in an elegant updo, and around her neck hung a simple, brilliant diamond pendant.
Marcus walked two paces behind her, wearing a sharp tuxedo that concealed his concealed sidearm and tactical radio.
Julian Vance stood near an ancient Egyptian display, holding a glass of vintage scotch and laughing with two city councilmen.
He was fifty years old, impeccably groomed, with sharp silver hair and cold, predatory blue eyes.
As Emma approached his circle, Vance turned his glass in his hand, his eyes locking onto her face with mild curiosity.
It took him three seconds to recognize the woman standing in front of him without her bright yellow cleaning gloves.
“Emma Torres,” Vance spoke, his voice smooth, gravelly, and dripping with condescending arrogance.
“I heard you received a massive promotion from housemaid to corporate executive overnight.”
“News travels fast in this city, Mr. Vance,” Emma replied calmly, stopping three feet away from him.
The city councilmen excused themselves politely, sensing the intense, sudden tension rising between the two of them.
“You always did have an annoying habit of sticking your nose where it didn't belong, Emma,” Vance sneered softly.
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“Like behind brick walls in service corridors?” Emma countered, her voice ice-cold.
Vance’s smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening around his scotch glass.
