Chapter 5
Alaric stood in the open doorway, his silhouette casting a long, dark shadow across the shivering children. For three full seconds, the only sound in the St. Jude Crescent Club was the hum of the refrigeration unit and the soft, rhythmic clink of Alaric’s signet ring against the doorframe.
He pulled a small silver pocket knife from his vest pocket. With a single flick of the blade, he sliced through the plastic restraints binding Thomas Vance’s wrists.
"Get them out," Alaric commanded softly.
Thomas rubbed his raw wrists, tears welling in his battered eyes. He gathered two of the smaller children into his arms, while the other two scrambled forward on numb feet, tumbling out of the cellar and onto the warm, carpeted threshold of the grand ballroom.
The sight of four freezing, half-starved children spilling out into the glittering charity gala sent a shockwave of horror through the gathered aristocrats. Women in silk gowns gasped, stepping back in disgust and disbelief. Several board members looked toward the exits, suddenly realizing that the foundation’s golden facade had just cracked down the middle.
Winifred backed away, her hands pressed against the wall, her voice rising into a panicked, defensive shrill.
"They were going to ruin the event, Uncle!" she cried, pointing an accusing, trembling finger at Thomas. "The Beaumont Group was here! The mayor’s delegates! We had three million dollars in private foundation pledges on the line! Those brats were running through the service hall, dirtying the walls! I told the kitchen staff that no children were permitted on the club premises during the gala! They defied me!"
Alaric turned slowly from the cellar entrance. He did not look at the trembling children, nor at the horrified guests. His gaze locked onto Winifred, pinning her to the wainscoting like an insect under a microscope.
"Three million dollars," Alaric repeated, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. "You locked my baker’s blood in an icehouse for three million dollars."
"It was for the prestige of the family name!" Winifred screamed, trying to rally the silent room to her defense. "I run this club! While you were in Europe, I doubled our margins! I cleaned out the dead weight!"
"The Marwood Foundation does not beg for pledges, Winifred," Alaric said, taking three slow, deliberate strides toward her. The floorboards seemed to vibrate beneath his weight. "We gave sixty million dollars to endow the children’s hospital this morning. The check cleared in Zurich four hours ago."
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Winifred’s breath hitching, her eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "What... what did you say?"
"You didn't want the Beaumont pledge for the hospital," Alaric continued, stopping less than an arm's length from her. "You needed three million dollars in liquid cash because you owe five million to the docks in Newark."
