Chapter 16 - The Monaco Gala
We did not wait for their strike teams to corner us in Vermont. If the monster lived in the sunlit decadence of the Mediterranean, that was where we would drive the spear through its heart.
Ten days later, the harbor of Monte Carlo gleamed like a constellation of diamonds scattered across obsidian glass. Mega-yachts rocked gently in the swell, their decks alive with champagne, laughter, and string quartets playing above the whisper of the surf.
Every year, the Meridian Circle hosted the *Nereid Maritime Gala*—a private, ultra-exclusive gathering held aboard the *Leviathan*, a four-hundred-foot luxury vessel anchored three miles offshore in international waters. To the world's financial press, it was an innocent charity ball for marine conservation. In reality, it was the annual shareholder meeting of the shadow syndicate.
Clara and I did not arrive in chains. We arrived through the front door, draped in silk and vengeance.
Maya had leaked an untraceable, encrypted ping to the Meridian Circle's brokers: *The widows Duncan will attend. Have the release documentation ready, or the full decryption keys go to the International Criminal Court.*
I wore an emerald backless gown that concealed an ultra-slim data transceiver strapped to my thigh. Clara wore black velvet, her posture regal, her silvering hair pinned high, displaying the faint, pale scar along her jawline like a war medal.
As our tender approached the towering, pristine white hull of the *Leviathan*, armed security guards in bespoke tuxedos inspected our credentials with tight, calculating expressions. They knew who we were. They knew what we carried.
When we stepped into the grand ballroom—a cavern of mirrored glass, gilded pillars, and crystal chandeliers—the laughter and chatter died in a sudden, rippling wave of silence.
Billionaires, ministers, and corporate titans froze mid-sentence, their eyes darting between Clara—the woman who had risen from the dead—and me, the bride who had sent their golden boy to the execution chamber.
At the center of the ballroom, standing beneath a massive oil painting of the Mediterranean sea, stood Lord Julian Sterling. He was a man of seventy-five, with immaculate silver hair, cold blue eyes that held the deadness of deep-sea trenches, and an aura of absolute, uncontested dominance.
Beside him stood Helena Ross, her arm bandaged beneath her evening dress, her face darkening into a mask of pure venom.
May you like
"The resurrected bride and the rebellious widow," Sterling said, his voice a low, cultured purr that carried across the hushed room. "Jonathan spoke of you both with an embarrassing amount of passion. Welcome to the *Leviathan*, ladies. Let us conclude our business before the champagne goes flat."
***
