Chapter 12 - The Aftermath of the Gala
Around them, the remaining guests watched in stunned silence. Many prominent socialites, women who hadn't shed a tear in decades, discreetly wiped their eyes with expensive linen napkins. Even those who had judged Amelia only minutes earlier, who had sneered at her clumsy spill, now looked away, deeply ashamed of their own arrogance.
There was no music. There was no cutting of the massive, six-tier birthday cake. There were no speeches from board members.
The 30th birthday celebration of Isabella Hartley ended abruptly.
Hotel security, finally realizing their job was to protect the sisters from the flashing cameras, formed a human wall around them. Isabella kept her arm firmly wrapped around Amelia’s waist, refusing to let go as they were escorted out through the private service corridors—the exact corridors Amelia had used to enter the building.
They rode the service elevator in silence, the only sound the soft hum of the machinery. Isabella reached into a hidden pocket of her dress, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and gently wiped the dried blood from Amelia's temple.
"Does it hurt?" Isabella whispered.
"Not as much as it used to," Amelia replied softly, looking at the floor.
When they reached the underground parking garage, Isabella’s private driver was waiting with the armored limousine. Isabella opened the door and gestured for Amelia to get in.
"Come home with me," Isabella pleaded. "Please."
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Amelia looked at the plush leather interior, the glowing ambient lights. It was a world she didn't belong in. She shook her head slowly. "Not tonight, Isabella. I need to go back to my own apartment. I need time to think."
Isabella looked crushed, but she nodded understandingly. She instructed her driver to take Amelia wherever she needed to go, promising they would speak tomorrow.
