Chapter 6 - the crest of the old world
Sitting in the palm of Vincent’s large, scarred hand was an old, heavy gold signet ring. It wasn't shiny or delicate. It was brutal, ancient-looking gold, scratched and weathered by time.
Engraved deep into the face of the gold was a crest. A sprawling oak tree with roots wrapping around a broadsword.
The cameras from the press pit zoomed in. The image of the ring flashed on the massive projector screens flanking the stage.
It was the exact same crest that was printed on the banners hanging from the ceiling. It was the original crest of the Foundation, a logo that Celeste’s father had desperately tried to phase out and rebrand decades ago.
Vincent slowly slid the heavy gold ring onto his right index finger. It fit perfectly.
He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto Celeste’s. The air between them dropped twenty degrees. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, gravelly rasp. It wasn't loud, but it didn't need a microphone. It carried the weight of absolute destruction.
"Now," Vincent said, his tone ice-cold and unyielding. "Tell me how much my name is worth here."
Celeste stared at the ring on the massive screens. Her mind raced, desperately trying to connect the dots. Her father’s secretive meetings. The locked basement files. The strange, anonymous cash infusions that kept their charity afloat during the recession. The rumors of a silent partner who lived in the shadows.
All the blood drained from her fair face. Her rosy complexion turned to a sickly, pale white. She looked at the old man in the cheap suit, really looked at him for the first time, and she saw the terrifying truth hiding behind his quiet demeanor.
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He wasn't an intruder. She was.
The champagne glass she didn't realize she was holding slipped from her manicured fingers, shattering against the marble floor.
