of greed?’”
I turned my head and locked eyes with Eleanor. Her serene smile faltered for a fraction of a millimeter. She sensed it. The subtle shift in my tone. The lack of warmth in my eyes.
“Well,” I said, turning back to the crowd. “Tonight, I’ve decided to show you my secret.”
I reached into my pocket and pressed a small button on a remote control.
The main ballroom lights slammed dark.
Behind me, the massive, thirty-foot LED screen—which had been displaying our monogram—flickered.
The screen flared to life, illuminating the dark ballroom with the stark, unglamorous footage from the basement of The Gilded Oak. The audio was crisp, amplified through the concert-grade speakers.
There was Eleanor, in high definition, pouring the champagne.
“To the stupidest man in Chicago,” Harper’s sneering voice echoed off the crystal chandeliers.
“To Richard,” Eleanor’s laugh boomed through the room. “The goose that lays