Chapter 3
The Grandview Hotel was awash in the brilliant glow of crystal chandeliers.
To celebrate George's 80th birthday, the entire ballroom had been reserved. The city's business elite milled about in their finest attire, the air heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and the constant chime of clinking crystal.
Michael stood at the entrance in a bespoke suit, Vivian on his arm, greeting guests with a smile so practiced it looked painted on.
Vivian was radiant. She wore a shimmering Elie Saab gown, and around her neck hung the Landon family's heirloom emerald necklace—the same one George had placed around Claire's neck on her wedding day.
"Mr. Landon, Ms. Lynn, congratulations!" A real estate mogul approached with a glass in hand, his gaze lingering on Vivian. "You two truly are a perfect match."
"Thank you, Mr. Grant," Michael replied, clinking glasses while his eyes drifted toward the entrance.
It was already 7:10, and Claire was nowhere to be seen.
Was she really not coming, or was she plotting something? A trace of unease crept into Michael's mind.
"Michael, what are you looking for?" Vivian leaned in, her voice thick with practiced sweetness. "Don't tell me you're still thinking about Claire?"
Michael pulled his gaze back, his tone cool. "Don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not being ridiculous," Vivian whispered, sounding wounded. "Claire was so aggressive at the courthouse; I haven't slept for nights. If she shows up and makes a scene at an event this important..."
"She wouldn't dare," Michael snapped, though he couldn't shake the nagging anxiety.
Claire had changed. She used to be as docile as a rabbit, but now she felt like a blade unsheathed—sharp and dangerous.
By the entrance, a black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop.
The door opened, and a pair of red high heels stepped onto the carpet. The slender heels looked as sharp and dangerous as a blade.
Claire stepped out of the car.
She wore a vivid red floor-length gown, embroidered with a golden phoenix spreading its wings. The high slit revealed her slender, toned legs, and her hair was pinned in a retro updo with an emerald brooch—a keepsake from her mother.
She wore no jewelry, save for the Patek Philippe watch on her left wrist.
It had been a wedding gift from Michael. Back then, he had told her, "Claire, when the company goes public, I'll buy you something even better."
When the company went public, he bought Vivian a full set of diamonds instead.
"Ms. Jennings, this way, please," a waiter said, bowing respectfully as he led the way.
Claire gave a slight nod and took the arm of the man at her side.
He wore a navy suit, standing tall and poised. His features were sharply defined with a hint of an ambiguous, mixed heritage, but his eyes were his most striking feature—amber irises that glowed like liquid honey under the lights.
"Nervous?" the man asked, his low voice carrying a magnetic hint of amusement.
"Me?" Claire glanced up at him. "They're the ones who should be nervous."
The man grinned. "I like this side of you."
His name was Alexander Rivers, the "surprise" Susan had arranged.
He was twenty-seven, an Ivy League math PhD, and the youngest partner at a top-tier global investment bank. He had returned only last month to take over his family's private equity firm.
He was so perfect he felt almost unreal.
But Claire didn't care about his pedigree. She only needed a date who could steal the spotlight, and Alexander was dazzling, almost to a fault.
The moment they stepped into the hall, the room fell silent.
A sea of eyes turned toward them—some shocked, some intrigued, and others merely hungry for a scene.
Michael's smile died on his face.
He stared at Claire, her arm linked with Alexander's, taking in the defiant red of her dress and the cold calm in her eyes. His chest tightened as if caught in a vice, making every breath a struggle.
How dare she?
How dare she dressed like that?
How dare she show up with another man?
Vivian's expression curdled. She had spent two hours on her transformation, yet the moment Claire arrived, she was invisible. That gown, that poise, that effortless elegance—it was a grace that no amount of money could ever replicate.
"C-Claire, you're here," Vivian said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her trembling voice.
Claire walked toward them, a faint, sharp smile playing on her lips. "I wouldn't dream of missing George's birthday."
She took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and raised it toward Michael. "Mr. Landon, congratulations on the wedding."
She voiced the word "wedding" with crystal clarity, letting it ring through the sudden silence of the room.
Michael's face darkened. "Claire, what is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what I said," Claire replied, taking a sip of her champagne. "Why, Mr. Landon? Am I not welcome?"
Whispers began to ripple through the crowd.
"Is that Michael's ex-wife? I thought she was some dowdy housewife."
"Dowdy? She looks like a goddess."
"Who's the guy with her? He's stunning."
"I think that's the Rivers heir. He just returned from overseas."
As the gossip reached Michael, a vein throbbed at his temple. He lowered his voice. "Claire, don't push it. This is Grandpa's birthday. If you're here to cause a scene, at least show some restraint."
"Me? Causing trouble?" Claire laughed, her voice quiet but sharp enough for those nearby to hear. "Mr. Landon, you brought your mistress into the family and announced an engagement at your grandfather's birthday. Tell me, who is really making a scene?"
"You—" Michael was so incensed he moved as if to raise his hand.
Alexander stepped forward, shielding Claire. He stood half a head taller than Michael, his amber eyes cold. "Mr. Landon, it's hardly a good look to lay a hand on a lady, is it?"
The air in the room turned brittle. Every guest seemed to hold their breath.
"What is everyone crowding around for?" A commanding, elderly voice rang out.
The crowd parted as George was wheeled into the room. He wore a custom-tailored silk smoking jacket, his hair silver, but his eyes remained sharp and full of life. His gaze swept over Michael and Vivian before finally settling on Claire.
"Claire, you're here," George said gently. "Why are you standing out here? Come, keep me company for a while."
"George," Claire said, letting go of Alexander's arm to kneel beside the wheelchair. "To a remarkable life and many more years of joy."
She took a slim velvet case from her bag and opened it, revealing an antique silver letter opener with a hand-carved handle. "I had this sourced for you. Since you appreciate fine craftsmanship, I thought you might find a use for it in your study."
George picked up the silver piece and examined it closely. The blade was engraved with "Eighty Years of Excellence," and on the inner side, in tiny, elegant script, it read: "For George, with love, Claire."
George's eyes suddenly brimmed with emotion.
"Good, very good..." He gripped Claire's hand, his voice thick. "Claire, this family has failed you."
"George, please don't say that," Claire said softly. "It simply wasn't meant to be."
Claire kept her tone graceful, but no one missed the subtext—this wasn't about fate; it was about betrayal.
Vivian stood off to the side, her face pale. She had brought a diamond-encrusted watch worth hundreds of thousands as her gift, but next to that thoughtful, bespoke antique, it looked transactional and cheap.
Michael's expression grew even darker.
"Claire, who's this?" George asked, looking at Alexander.
"This is my friend, Alexander Rivers," Claire introduced him. "Alexander, this is Mr. George Landon."
Alexander stepped forward and gave a polite nod. "Mr. Landon, it's an honor. My father, Richard Rivers, asked me to convey his warmest regards."
"Richard Rivers?" George's eyes lit up. "You're Richard's son? How is that old rogue doing these days?"
"My father's doing well. He mentioned he'd like to visit you himself sometime soon," Alexander replied.