I turned the card over. A printed list of attendees was clipped to the back. My eyes scanned past the generals and defense executives, stopping dead on three names at the very bottom.
Mr. & Mrs. Robert Vance. Mr. Julian & Mrs. Chloe Phillips.
My stomach plummeted. Sterling wasn’t just giving me a penthouse. He was staging a public execution.
The elevator doors parted silently on the penthouse floor, revealing a space that defied comprehension. It was a sprawling cathedral of glass and polished obsidian floors.
A woman in a sharp suit stepped out from an adjacent hallway. “Welcome home, Ms. Vance. I’m Grace, your executive chief of staff. Your maternity wardrobe has been curated for this evening’s event.”
I gripped the edge of a marble console table. “Grace… did you see the guest list for tonight?”
“I personally dispatched the military couriers to hand-deliver the invitations to your family’s residence an hour ago,” she confirmed, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
