From here, I had a clear view of both table ten and table twelve.

Vivian Mercer sat stiffly in a crimson gown that looked too tight around her collar.

Her fingers tapped nervously against the white linen tablecloth.

Daniel sat to her right, his eyes fixed on his half-empty whiskey glass.

He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes visible even from a distance.

Claire was on Vivian’s left, frantically checking her makeup in a small compact mirror.

They looked like a family waiting for an executioner, trying to pretend they were guests of honor.

A waiter approached their table, offering a tray of champagne.

Vivian waved him away with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Her eyes were scanning the entrance of the ballroom.

Suddenly, the double doors opened, and Arthur Vance walked in.

Arthur Vance was a tall man in his late fifties with thick silver hair and a sharp, tailored tuxedo.

He carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who owned entire shipping fleets.

The crowd parted slightly as he walked, people nodding in his direction.