Chapter 227
227:
Katie lingered in the shadows, desperately hoping she could fade into the background. If anyone blamed her for Yolanda’s mess, she had no defense—she was the reason Yolanda landed in jail. The last thing she wanted was to be on the receiving end of Finnegan and Sheila’s wrath.
“Stop putting this all on him!” Joselyn snapped, irritation sharpening her tone. “You act like he’s not doing everything he can. If there’s blame, it’s that bitch, Christina, and that mysterious backer. God knows what kind of influence her new man has.”
Icy dread crept through Joselyn’s chest. What if Christina’s supporter decided to make the Dawson family their next target? What if all their hard work collapsed before they could secure the Hubbard family’s support?
“So what do we do now?” Finnegan demanded, voice tight with frustration as he shot Joselyn a glare.
Joselyn shrugged. “What else is there? We’ll just have to wing it. Skipping one banquet won’t kill anyone. You two can still show up.” Joselyn had no idea why Finnegan and Sheila looked so desperate, but their disappointment was practically radiating off them.
For Finnegan and Sheila, the banquet had been everything—their shot at helping Yolanda catch the eye of a high-society guest, maybe even the Hubbard family themselves. But now, with their connections in Dorfield bone dry and the Dawson family proving useless, all they could do was stew in their resentment.
Soon enough, the day of the Hubbard family’s grand banquet finally arrived.
The Hubbard family’s grand reunion banquet glittered beneath the high ceilings of their Cloudcrest Heights mansion, a palace carved out at the foot of the city’s most exclusive enclave.
Ordinary folks could only fantasize about stepping foot past Cloudcrest Heights’ fortified gates. Tonight, though, invitations served as free tickets—giving a chosen few a rare peek behind the curtain at how the other half truly lived.
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Though the Hubbard estate ranked lowest on the Cloudcrest Heights social ladder, the mansion itself was an architectural marvel—opulent, sprawling, and untouchable for anyone outside the world of the ultra-rich.
Here, real estate wasn’t just about deep pockets. It was about wielding power. The true elite lived even higher up the mountain—at the legendary Scott estate, a place whispered about in awed tones. Most people would have considered their lives complete if they ever glimpsed those rarified halls.
For everyone else, even brushing against the lowest rung of Cloudcrest Heights felt like a victory.
But access was tightly guarded. Gaining entry meant passing through a gauntlet of checkpoints, each one manned by eagle-eyed security.
Outside the first barrier, the parking lot glittered with automotive royalty—sleek Rolls-Royces, roaring Lamborghinis, a few Bugattis, and even a Pagani or two. Chauffeurs and socialites milled about, invitations in hand, awaiting inspection.
Katie lounged in her cherry-red Ferrari, watching the display of wealth and status with thinly veiled ambition.
Typical of the Hubbard family, Dorfield’s reigning dynasty, tonight’s guest list read like a roll call of the city’s most powerful and well-connected. Every attendee was either obscenely rich or just a few handshakes away from someone who was.
Katie let a slow, confident smile curl across her lips. Even if she failed to land a Hubbard, there were plenty of sharks in this golden sea. She intended to leave with a new target in her sights.
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