"The Vance Gala," Laurent said smoothly, his French accent thick and dripping with condescension. "The crown jewel of the autumn social calendar. Every major investor, international buyer, and fashion editor will be in that ballroom. If House of Vance fails to present a breathtaking, seamless event, their stock will plummet by thirty percent before the market opens on Monday."
"And Eleanor is changing everything," Chloe added eagerly, leaning in. "She’s replacing the entire senior floor staff. She’s promoting line workers and junior associates who don't know the first thing about high-society protocol. She’s ripping up our VIP client lists!"
"Which creates a magnificent opportunity," Laurent said softly.
He pulled a thin leather portfolio from his briefcase and slid it across the table toward Victoria.
"My sources tell me that Eleanor has personally selected the master archival gown for the gala’s finale—the 1954 'Imperial Rose' dress designed by her grandfather. It is irreplaceable. It is the physical manifestation of the Vance legacy."
Victoria opened the portfolio, scanning the internal security schedules, logistics maps, and vendor contracts for the gala.
"What do you want us to do?" Victoria asked, her eyes narrowing with malicious intent.
"The venue for the pre-gala press showcase is the private terminal hangar at JFK," Laurent explained. "The dress, along with the fifty-million-dollar diamond collection being loaned by De Beers, will be transported there forty-eight hours prior. I have already bribed the primary logistics coordinator—a man who lost heavily on Julian’s advice last quarter."
Chloe’s eyes widened. "You’re going to steal the gown?"
"Stealing it would create a criminal investigation that might trace back to us," Laurent replied, his voice dropping to a whisper. "No. We destroy its reputation. We ensure the gown is contaminated—ruined by chemical solvents framed as a careless handling error by Eleanor’s newly promoted, uneducated retail staff. At the same time, we leak the video of the operational chaos to every major outlet."
"And when House of Vance stumbles," Victoria smiled cruelly, "Leclair Luxe steps in to buy out their distressed shares."
"Precisely," Laurent said. "And for your assistance, Victoria, Julian... you will receive executive seats on the board of Leclair Luxe’s North American division."
Unbeknownst to the conspirators in the booth, sitting two tables away behind a high decorative screen was Marcus Vance—Eleanor’s younger half-brother.
Marcus was not wearing his usual high-fashion attire. He wore a simple dark hoodie, a pair of worn jeans, and carried an unassuming canvas bag. He had spent the last three hours sipping cheap beer and listening to every word through a parabolic directional microphone plugged into his smartphone.
Marcus tapped a button on his phone screen, stopping the audio recording. He quietly slid out of his booth, stepped out into the cool night air of the meatpacking district, and dialed Eleanor’s direct line.
The phone rang twice before Eleanor answered.
"Marcus?" her voice came through the line, perfectly calm despite the late hour. "Did you find them?"
"I found them, El," Marcus said, leaning against the brick exterior of the club, his voice laced with disgust. "It’s bad. Victoria and Julian are working directly with Laurent Leclair. They’re planning to sabotage the Imperial Rose gown at the JFK hangar before the gala. They’ve already bought off the head of logistics."
There was a brief pause on the line. Marcus expected his sister to gasp, to panic, or to demand immediate police intervention.
Instead, Eleanor let out a long, slow breath.
"Logistics," Eleanor mused softly. "They always go for the supply chain. They think in terms of inventory and sabotage because they have no imagination."
"El, we need to call federal authorities," Marcus urged. "This is industrial espionage."
"No," Eleanor said, her voice turning to ice. "If we call the authorities now, Leclair will deny everything, fire his proxy, and slip away. Victoria and Julian will claim they were merely meeting a competitor for dinner. We don't just want to stop them, Marcus. We want to end Leclair’s ability to corrupt this industry once and for all."
"What’s the plan?" Marcus asked, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Let them proceed," Eleanor instructed calmly. "Let them think their insider is feeding them real security schedules. But tomorrow morning, you and I are going to make a private visit to the hangar."
Chapter 9: The Hangar Confrontation
The private VIP aviation hangar at JFK Airport was a cavernous expanse of pristine white concrete, polished steel, and high-intensity LED lighting. Outside, the low roar of commercial jet engines echoed across the tarmac. Inside, three luxury private jets stood gleaming under the lights, their chrome engines reflecting the sterile environment.