Chapter 7
The heavy, oppressive silence of the ballroom finally broke as Imani turned her back on the wreckage. The sharp, rhythmic clicking of her black stilettos against the wet marble sounded like a judge's gavel finalizing a sentence. She didn't glance back at Preston, who was now groaning weakly, attempting to push himself up from the ruined silver and shattered glass.
"Get him out of here," Imani commanded without looking back. Her voice was smooth, completely devoid of the adrenaline that had fueled her violence seconds before.
Instantly, four massive bodyguards in dark suits stepped forward. They didn't offer Preston a hand up; they grabbed him roughly by the lapels of his soaking-wet, ruined midnight blue tuxedo and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. Preston cried out in pain, clutching his ribs, but the men offered no mercy. They began dragging him toward the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom, his patent leather shoes leaving a trail of bloody water across the floor.
"Preston! My baby!" Constance shrieked, finally breaking out of her terrified paralysis. She lunged forward, her opulent champagne-colored sequined gown rustling loudly. "Let him go! You can't treat him like this! We are family!"
Imani stopped dead in her tracks. The entire room collectively held its breath again.
Imani slowly turned her head, her dark, piercing eyes locking onto the older White woman. The absolute coldness in Imani’s gaze made Constance stop completely, her heavy pearl and diamond layered necklace trembling violently against her chest.
"You were family," Imani corrected softly, the words slicing through the air like a razor. "By marriage. A marriage that no longer exists. You have exactly two minutes to follow your son out of those doors, Constance, before I instruct my men to remove you with the exact same level of respect he showed my mother."
Constance’s face drained of color, turning a ghastly shade of pale white. She opened her mouth to argue, her deep-seated arrogance fighting against her survival instinct, but a towering capo stepped directly into her path, his hand resting visibly on the grip of his holstered weapon.
Constance swallowed hard, tears of profound humiliation welling in her eyes. She turned and practically ran toward the exit, her designer heels clicking frantically, desperate to escape the terrifying wrath of the woman she had foolishly believed she could control.
With the usurpers gone, Imani turned her attention to the silent, watching crowd. Hundreds of elite guests, politicians, and syndicate members stood frozen, entirely unsure of what to do next.
"The music stopped," Imani observed quietly, looking up toward the balcony where the string quartet had been playing before the violence erupted.
The musicians, pale and terrified, immediately scrambled to pick up their instruments. Within seconds, a frantic, slightly off-tempo classical piece began to fill the massive room, completely at odds with the destruction along the wall.
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"My mother requires my attention," Imani announced to the room, her voice projecting with absolute, undeniable authority. "The gala will continue. Drink. Eat. Enjoy the evening. But remember exactly what you saw here tonight. Disrespect in this house carries a heavy price."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and walked purposefully toward the private elevators, the striking crimson velvet of her gown trailing behind her, leaving a room full of powerful people absolutely terrified of the queen they served.
