Chapter 8 Red Wine Redemption

# Chapter 8: Red Wine Redemption

Albert's birthday gala transformed the penthouse into a glittering showcase of wealth and influence. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over the city's elite as they mingled in designer formalwear, air kisses exchanged with the same calculated precision as stock trades. I observed it all from the periphery, a predator assessing the perfect moment to strike.

My dress was a calculated risk—a floor-length gown of ivory silk with a high neckline and bare back, revealing the constellation of surgical scars I usually kept hidden. The dress's most important feature, however, was invisible to the casual observer: a pH-reactive material sewn into the hem, designed to reveal hidden messages when exposed to certain chemicals.

"You look stunning," Albert murmured, appearing at my elbow with two champagne flutes. "Almost outshining the birthday boy."

I accepted the champagne with a practiced smile. "Happy birthday, Albert. The party is magnificent."

"It's better now that you've joined it." His eyes traveled appreciatively over my form. "I wasn't sure you'd come. These events can be tedious."

"And miss seeing you in your element? Never." I clinked my glass against his. "To another successful year."

His pleasure at my attention was transparent, his ego as easily stroked as a house pet. Men like Albert mistook flattery for connection, attention for attraction. It made them dangerously simple to manipulate.

"I'd like to introduce you to some people," he said, placing his hand on the small of my back—a proprietary gesture not lost on the watching crowd. "My board members are curious about Elliot's new tutor."

I allowed him to guide me through the room, playing my role as the charming, cultured employee while scanning for key targets. Lucas held court near the bar, already showing signs of intoxication as he regaled admirers with some anecdote. Winton Pierce stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, engaged in conversation with a silver-haired man I recognized as Senator Holloway, one of Albert's political connections.

And Elliot—he sat alone at the grand piano, playing background music that the guests largely ignored, his eyes occasionally meeting mine in silent communication. Our plan was set. After the toast, he would create a distraction, allowing me to slip away to Lucas's apartment.

Albert paraded me through conversations with board members, political figures, and society matrons, each interaction a careful performance. I was intelligent but not threatening, charming but appropriately deferential. The perfect employee with just enough warmth to suggest future potential.

"She's transformed Elliot," Albert told his board chairman. "First tutor who's managed to engage him in years."

"Impressive," the chairman replied, eyes lingering on my décolletage rather than my face. "Perhaps we should hire her for corporate training."

Their laughter grated on my nerves, but I maintained Claire's pleasant expression. Let them underestimate me. Let them see only what they expected—a beautiful woman to be acquired, used, discarded.

"There you are, Father," Lucas's voice cut through the conversation as he joined our circle, glass in hand. "Monopolizing the lovely Ms. Fontaine as usual."

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His words were light but carried an edge of challenge. The territorial dance between father and son over me had intensified in recent days, exactly as I'd planned.

"Lucas," Albert acknowledged coolly. "Enjoying yourself, I see."

"It's a party, isn't it?" Lucas turned his attention to me, eyes slightly unfocused. "You clean up nicely, teacher. Almost didn't recognize you without a book in your hand."

"Thank you, I think," I replied. "Though I do miss my books. Social events can be so... superficial."

The chairman chuckled. "Sharp tongue on this one, Albert."

"Claire appreciates substance over style," Albert said, his hand still possessive on my back. "A rare quality these days."

Lucas's expression darkened momentarily before he masked it with another drink. "Speaking of substance, the Japanese delegation is asking for you. Something about the Osaka deal."

Albert hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave me with his son. "I should see to that. Claire, would you—"

"I'll keep Ms. Fontaine company," Lucas interjected. "Show her around, introduce her to people worth knowing."

The implication that Albert's circle wasn't "worth knowing" hung in the air between them. I watched their silent power struggle with detached amusement—two predators fighting over prey that was actually the hunter.

"Very well," Albert finally conceded. "I'll find you for the toast."

As he walked away, Lucas immediately steered me in the opposite direction. "Let's get you a proper drink. That champagne is swill."

"It's Dom Pérignon," I noted with raised eyebrows.

"Exactly. Predictable." He guided me toward a quieter corner where a bartender was serving red wine. "This, however, is special. Château Lafite Rothschild, 1982. Father's been saving it for a 'worthy occasion.'" His smile turned mischievous. "I decided this qualified."

He gestured for two glasses, watching as the deep ruby liquid caught the light. "You know what's fascinating about expensive wine?" he asked, handing me a glass.

"What?"

"People can't actually taste the difference between this and a twenty-dollar bottle. They just convince themselves they can because of the price tag." He studied me over the rim of his glass. "I wonder what other expensive things aren't worth their price."

There was something dangerous in his tone, a probing quality that set my nerves on edge. Did he suspect something? Had Winton shared his concerns?

"Philosophy at a birthday party?" I deflected lightly. "How unexpected."

"I'm full of surprises." His eyes dropped to my exposed back. "Those are interesting scars. Car accident?"

My pulse quickened. "Something like that."

"Must have been serious."

"It was life-changing," I replied truthfully.

He stepped closer, invading my space in that entitled way of his. "You know what I think, Claire?"

"I rarely attempt to guess what men are thinking."

"Smart girl." He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. "I think you're not who you pretend to be."

Before I could respond, the lights dimmed and a microphone squealed with feedback. Albert stood at the center of the room, preparing for his birthday toast. Perfect timing.

"Excuse me," I murmured to Lucas. "I should find my seat."

His hand caught my wrist, grip firm but not painful. "We're not finished, you and I."

I met his gaze steadily. "We haven't even started."

Extracting myself from his grasp, I moved toward the front of the room where tables had been arranged for the dinner portion of the evening. Elliot caught my eye from the piano, giving an almost imperceptible nod. He was ready.

Albert tapped his glass for attention, the crowd gradually quieting. "Thank you all for coming tonight. At fifty-nine, a man reflects on his accomplishments..."

As he launched into a self-congratulatory speech, I positioned myself strategically—close enough to the front to be visible, but with a clear path to the exit. In my clutch purse, I carried the tools I'd need for our mission to Lucas's apartment: electronic lockpick, gloves, and a flash drive for copying files.

"...none of this would be possible without my team," Albert continued, raising his glass. "To another year of growth and prosperity!"

The crowd echoed his toast, glasses raised. This was my moment. I moved forward through the applauding guests, champagne flute in one hand and my purse in the other.

"Albert," I called, stepping into the center of the attention. "May I offer a special toast? To honor our host properly?"

His face registered surprise, then pleasure at being singled out. "Of course, Claire."

All eyes turned to me—the beautiful tutor in the striking white dress, commanding attention in a room full of power players. I approached Albert slowly, aware of Winton Pierce watching me with narrowed eyes from the periphery.

"In France," I began, my accent slightly more pronounced for effect, "we have a tradition for milestone birthdays. A symbolic gesture to wash away the past year's misfortunes and welcome prosperity."

I signaled to a nearby waiter, who brought over a tray with a single glass of the Château Lafite that Lucas had been pouring. I exchanged my champagne for the wine, holding it aloft.

"This wine," I continued, "represents not just luxury, but legacy. The soil it grew in, the hands that harvested it, the time it took to reach perfection—just like a man's life work."

Albert beamed, completely seduced by the performance. The crowd watched, enraptured by the theatrical moment.

"To Albert Friedrich," I raised the glass higher, "may your accomplishments be remembered."

And then, with deliberate precision, I tossed the contents of the glass directly at Albert's face.

The red wine splashed across his white shirt and jacket, dripping down his stunned features like blood. For a suspended moment, the room was utterly silent, frozen in collective shock.

Then chaos erupted. Gasps. Someone screamed. Security moved forward.

But the real magic was happening on my dress. The pH-reactive fabric at the hem began to change as droplets of wine fell on it, revealing a single word in crimson letters: REMEMBER.

Albert stood paralyzed, wine dripping from his chin, the humiliation of being doused at his own birthday party rendering him momentarily speechless. When he finally found his voice, it emerged as a strangled whisper.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I stepped closer, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "How does it feel when something burns your skin, Albert? When it marks you without your consent? When people stare at the damage?"

Recognition flickered in his eyes—not of who I was, but that this was intentional. Not an accident. An attack.

"Security!" Winton's voice cut through the chaos as he pushed toward us. "Remove her immediately!"

Elliot chose that moment to execute his part of the plan. The piano crashed into discordant notes as he collapsed against the keys, body convulsing in what appeared to be a seizure.

"Elliot!" Albert shouted, attention immediately diverted to his son.

The room pivoted toward this new crisis—guests backing away, someone calling for a doctor, Albert rushing to Elliot's side. In the confusion, I slipped through the service entrance, exactly as planned.

The emergency stairwell led down to the private elevator bank that connected to Lucas's apartment on the floor below. I moved quickly, heart pounding with adrenaline, changing from my heels to the flat shoes I'd stashed in my purse.

As I rode the elevator down one floor, I couldn't help smiling at the image I'd left behind—Albert Friedrich, titan of industry, dripping with red wine like acid on skin, marked and humiliated before his peers.

It was just the beginning of what I had planned for him. For all of them.

The elevator doors opened to Lucas's private foyer. I punched in the code Elliot had provided—051293—and the door unlocked with a soft click. I had fifteen minutes, at most, before someone noticed my absence or Lucas decided to retreat from the chaos.

Fifteen minutes to find the video that would burn his world to the ground.

I slipped inside, pulling on latex gloves as the door closed silently behind me.