The slap was loud enough to stop a violin. For one strange second, I didn’t feel it.

The ballroom of the Mercer Plaza Hotel was a sea of black tuxedos and icy pastels.

When the heavy double doors opened and Adrian Bellandi entered with my hand resting securely in the crook of his arm, the hum of two hundred polite conversations died instantly.

I felt the eyes.

Dozens of them. Society matrons clutching their pearls, corporate titans whispering behind their champagne flutes, and socialites scanning my waistline with clinical, venomous precision.

I didn't pull at my hem. I didn't round my shoulders.

I kept my spine straight, my chin lifted, and let the emerald velvet whisper against my thighs as Adrian led me into the center of the room.

Across the parquet floor, standing beside a ten-foot floral installation, stood Sloane Mercer.

She wore a pale, oyster-colored sheath dress that was so tight and spare she looked like an architectural sketch. Beside her stood her father, Arthur Mercer—a man with silver hair, cold blue eyes, and the arrogant posture of old money that had never faced a bankruptcy trustee.

Evan Cole was not there. The federal subpoena had done its work.

“Adrian,” Arthur Mercer said, stepping forward with an icy, formal smile. He didn't offer his hand. “We were surprised to see your RSVP confirmed. And even more surprised by your choice of guest.”

Sloane’s eyes raked over my body with naked contempt. “Miss Vance. How charming. Did you bring samples of day-old rye in your clutch, or did you simply come to collect another handout?”

A few people nearby chuckled nervously.

I felt Adrian’s forearm tense beneath my palm, the muscle turning to iron, but before he could speak, I took half a step forward.

“I came to ensure the menu met basic safety standards, Miss Mercer,” I said clearly, my voice carrying over the string quartet. “Given that your family’s distribution clearing house has been falsifying cold-chain refrigeration logs for three years to cut overhead costs.”

Arthur Mercer’s face went rigid. “What did you say?”

“The logs for the Atlantic freight terminals,” I said smoothly, taking a sip from the champagne flute a passing waiter had offered me. “Evan was very thorough when he bragged about his cost-cutting measures. He kept two sets of temperature sheets for every refrigerated container entering the Brooklyn port. One for the Department of Agriculture, and one for your private operating ledger. The difference between those two sets of books represents roughly four hundred thousand dollars in spoiled dairy and poultry that your firm repackaged and sold to school districts in upstate New York.”

The silence that fell over the room was absolute.

Even the violinists stopped playing.

“This is slander,” Arthur Mercer hissed, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his cane. “Security!”

“Security will do nothing,” Adrian’s voice cut through the air like a broadsword.

He stepped up beside me, placing one large, protective hand against the small of my back. The heat of his palm seared through the velvet, grounding me, reminding me that I was no longer alone in the dark.

“Arthur,” Adrian continued, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Three federal agents are currently waiting in the hotel lobby. They are not here for Miss Vance. They are here because thirty minutes ago, Evan Cole signed a comprehensive plea agreement with the United States Attorney’s office.”

Sloane gasped, clutching her father’s arm. “Evan wouldn't—”

“Evan would sell his own mother for a reduced sentence,” Adrian interrupted coldly. “He turned over the secondary server passwords. He provided the offshore account numbers. By morning, Mercer Holdings will be under full federal receivership.”

Adrian looked down at Sloane, his expression filled with a disgust so pure it seemed to scorch the air between them.

“You laughed when your fiancé struck this woman,” Adrian said, every syllable dropping like a lead weight. “You mocked her craft. You ridiculed her appearance. So hear me clearly, Miss Mercer: you have twenty-four hours to vacate your penthouse on Park Avenue. It sits on land owned by the Bellandi Trust, and as of five minutes ago, your lease has been terminated for breach of moral conduct covenants.”

Sloane’s lips trembled. Her skin had gone an ugly, blotchy gray beneath her makeup. She looked around the room for support, but every single one of her high-society friends was suddenly looking away, turning their backs to avoid being splashed by the impending wreckage.

Arthur Mercer swayed on his feet, his hand clawing at his chest.

Adrian didn't spare them another second. He turned to me, his gaze softening into something so fierce and warm it made my knees weak.

“Miss Vance,” he said, offering his arm once more. “The air in this room has become stale. Would you care to join me for real food?”

I looked at Arthur Mercer. I looked at Sloane.