Chapter 3 - THE COSTUME|
By Thursday afternoon, news of Arthur’s decision had leaked through the Costello organization like water through a cracked dam.
Beatrice sat at her steel desk in the basement accounting office, reviewing shipping invoices, when the heavy reinforced door clicked open.
Sophia Vane—Leo Costello’s fiancée and daughter of the Vane shipping dynasty—stepped into the room wearing a pale blue cashmere coat and silver heels that looked utterly ridiculous on the concrete floor. Two guards stood outside in the hallway.
“So,” Sophia began, her tone light, condescending, and laced with venom. “You’re the little bean-counter Arthur is using to insult my family.”
Beatrice didn't look up from her ledger. “Line forty-seven is missing a tax exemption form, Miss Vane. Unless you brought it with you, you’re standing in my light.”
Sophia clicked her tongue, walking over to inspect the filing cabinets. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Beatrice, but Arthur isn't a man who takes charity cases to high-society galas. Camila’s family owns half the docks in Miami. They were expecting him to bring a woman of standing.”
“Then they should have provided him with a list,” Beatrice said dryly, finally resting her pen on the desk. “I didn’t ask for the invitation, Miss Vane. If you want him to take someone else, go upstairs and tell him yourself.”
Sophia’s face tightened. Everyone knew better than to tell Arthur Costello what to do.
“He’s making a fool of you,” Sophia spat, taking a step closer. “You think you’re going to sit at the head table in your off-the-rack clothes while two hundred people laugh at you behind their champagne glasses?”
Before Beatrice could reply, the door opened wider.
A young man in a dark suit entered, carrying a massive black garment bag embossed with a crest from a private tailor in Milan, followed by a velvet box that practically radiated wealth.
“Miss Gallagher?” the courier asked politely. “Mr. Costello instructed us to deliver these directly to your desk.”
Sophia stared at the crest on the garment bag, her mouth opening slightly in shock. “That’s... that’s a bespoke Italian cut. He doesn't even let the family buyers order from that atelier.”
Beatrice looked at the black garment bag, feeling a sudden surge of irritation. She stood up, taking the package from the courier.
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“Tell Arthur,” Beatrice said to the courier, her voice cold, “that I distinctly remember laying down my own conditions regarding wardrobe.”
The courier bowed nervously. “Mr. Costello said to tell you, ma'am... that he didn't buy a dress. He bought armor.”
