Chapter 1 - THE PUBLIC STRIKE|
The string quartet was playing a smooth Vivaldi duet when Beckett Hail’s hand caught his wife across the jaw.
The cellist missed a single sharp note, stumbled for a fraction of a second, then found the rhythm again. Around the grand hall, two hundred elite guests stared into their champagne flutes. No one left their tables. No one made a sound.
Imara Coulson Hail was seven months pregnant, and she had arrived at the Royal York alone. Her driver had collected her from their Rosedale townhouse at 7:40 PM—forty minutes after Beck’s text had already reached her phone at the venue.
Car is coming.
Not I’ll wait for you in the lobby.
Not Happy anniversary.
Just three cold words arranged to inform rather than include. That was how Beck had communicated for the last two years.
The deep green satin dress his personal assistant had selected pulled tightly across Imara's swollen belly. His assistant had ordered the wrong size, but Imara wore it anyway. Showing up in an ill-fitting gown felt like less of a surrender than failing to appear at all.
Along the east wall of the ballroom, printed on three-meter exhibition panels, was the project that had secured Hail Development a forty-two-million-dollar waterfront contract.
The design was called Threshold Commons—a modular civic space built to flex between high residential density and public green infrastructure. Every proportion, every setback ratio, every shadow line on those exhibition panels was Imara’s work.
The name printed beneath the title was Dario Shimansky.
Imara had stepped up to the display where Dario stood alone in a tailored white jumpsuit.
"That's my threshold geometry, Dario," Imara said quietly, her voice laced with steel. "The setback ratio. The modular grid. I developed that sequence in 2021."
Dario turned, her champagne flute resting between red-manicured fingers. She didn't flinch. Instead, she reached out, wrapped her fingers firmly around Imara’s wrist, and smiled patronizingly.
"You should go home, Imara," Dario whispered. "You look exhausted. Pregnancy is clouding your memory."
That was when Beck strode across the polished floor. He didn't look at his wife's face; he looked only at Dario's distressed posture. He placed his body between them and struck Imara with the back of his right hand.
Open. Fast. Ruthless.
The blow cracked through the ballroom. The champagne flute fell from Dario’s hand, shattering across the marble. Dario pressed both hands to her chest, releasing a fragile, theatrical sob.
Imara stood frozen. One hand lifted to her burning cheek, the other cradling her baby. She waited for Beck to look at her, to ask what had happened.
Beck turned his back to her, stepping closer to Dario. "Are you alright?" he asked his deputy.
Imara swallowed the iron taste of blood inside her lip.
"Do you even know what tonight is, Beck?" Imara asked his back.
Beck turned slightly, a cold calculation flashing across his features. It was their sixth wedding anniversary—a date he had buried beneath corporate galas and press releases.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Imara didn't give him the chance to lie.
She unclasped the single pearl earring the strike had half-torn from her earlobe and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
May you like
"Happy anniversary, Beck," she whispered.
She turned and walked out of the ballroom, her back perfectly straight, while Dario’s perfectly timed weeping echoed behind her.
