Chapter 10 - The Plaza Ballroom
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a shimmering cascade of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and expensive silk gowns. Wealthy elites and powerful politicians mingled beneath the gilded ceilings, their laughter echoing softly against the neoclassical pillars.
When the heavy double doors at the entrance swung open, the ambient noise in the room seemed to drop by half a dozen decibels.
He didn't need an announcement.
Dominic Thorne walked into the ballroom with the slow, measured stride of an apex predator entering a pasture. His dark suit cut through the crowd like a knife through silk. Heads turned instantly; conversations trailed off into nervous whispers. Senators averted their eyes, and corporate executives suddenly found their champagne flutes deeply fascinating.
Dominic moved toward the center of the room, completely unbothered by the heavy aura of intimidation that trailed him like a shadow.
Silas stood discreetly near the entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the room, missing nothing.
Dominic reached for a glass of bourbon from a passing waiter’s silver tray, his expression neutral, his dark eyes surveying the room with supreme, unshakable command.
He didn't need a ring on his finger. He didn't need a decorative arm ornament to validate his presence. He didn't need the fragile illusion of polite society to hold his empire together.
He owned the room. He owned the city. And as he took a slow sip of his drink, looking out over the silent, compliant crowd, Dominic Thorne knew one absolute truth:
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Some empires aren't built on love, or promises, or gold.
They are forged in fire, carved out of steel, and kept by a man who never flinches when it’s time to let go.
