Three hundred guests filled the Ferraro estate, and every one of them was looking the wrong way.

At six o'clock the following morning, the executive floor of Ferraro Logistics on Poydras Street was completely silent.

The sun had not yet burned through the river fog when the private elevator chimed. Elias stepped into the marble corridor, flanked by Frank Calloway and an elderly, stooped man carrying two heavy leather briefcases—Arthur Sterling, the Ferraro family's chief forensic accountant for forty years.

Behind them, wearing a simple dark blue business suit purchased an hour earlier from an all-night department store, walked Delphine.

Her hair was pulled back into a neat, severe knot. She had left Josie in the care of Elias’s personal security team at a gated safehouse across Lake Pontchartrain—a sprawling, fortified estate where three armed guards walked the perimeter. For the first time in five years, Delphine did not smell like ammonia and furniture polish.

She walked into the corner boardroom, her eyes taking in the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that looked out over the sprawling, industrial expanse of the Port of New Orleans.

Dozens of giant blue cranes stood like metal sentinels along the water's edge. Container ships flying the flags of Panama, Liberia, and Singapore were being nudged into their berths by chugging tugboats.

This was the kingdom Camille Ashford intended to steal.

"Arthur," Elias said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and sitting at the head of the twenty-seat conference table. "Open the sub-ledger for Account 0094."

Arthur Sterling placed his briefcases on the table, snapped open the brass locks, and pulled out three thick binders containing the certified municipal audits of the Ferraro Foundation from 2018 to the present.

For the next two hours, the only sounds in the room were the scratching of pens, the hum of high-speed secure scanners, and the steady, rhythmic clicking of Arthur’s calculator.

Delphine sat beside Elias, watching the names and numbers scroll across the digital display screens on the wall.

"Here," Arthur said, his liver-spotted finger tapping a scanned ledger page. "Look at the authorization vouchers from October 2022. The month Aaron Aubrey’s loan was declared in default."

Elias leaned in.

The signature on the foreclosure voucher was not Marcus Vance’s.

It was signed with a neat, familiar, feminine hand:

Camille Ashford, Trustee for Gulf Coast Heritage Initiatives.

"She was appointed to the foundation board four years ago," Elias murmured, his voice frighteningly level. "My uncle suggested her. He said having an Ashford on the cultural committee would smooth our relations with the city zoning board."

"She didn't just sign the foreclosures, Elias," Arthur said, turning the page. "Look at the recipient of the seized assets. Aaron Aubrey’s trawler, the St. Jude, wasn't auctioned at a public marshal's sale. It was transferred for one dollar to an entity called Pelican Basin Marine. The managing partner of Pelican Basin is Judge Thaddeus Ashford’s brother-in-law."

Delphine felt a cold shiver race down her spine. "They took Aaron’s boat... and gave it to her uncle?"

"And then used it to transport unmanifested cargo through Berth 4," Arthur added, pulling up a secondary shipping manifest. "Hazardous chemical solvents from the chemical plants upriver. They bypass port customs because the vessel is registered as a private artisanal shrimper with an historic agricultural exemption."

"They were smuggling," Delphine breathed.

"They were laundering," Elias corrected coldly. "Camille’s family wasn't just broke. They were neck-deep in illegal waste transit. They needed my berths because Ferraro Logistics has private customs clearance. Once she had my signature on that post-nuptial maritime covenant, the entire Ashford syndicate would have had federal immunity under our corporate charter."

The door to the boardroom opened softly.

Frank Calloway stepped inside, holding a tablet computer.

"Boss," Frank said, his military posture stiff. "Camille just left her townhouse on Seventh Street. She’s on her way here. She thinks you called an emergency meeting to review the pre-wedding press releases."

Elias did not look up from the ledger. "Is Marcus Vance still at the Sonesta?"

"He checked out an hour ago. He’s currently sitting in Judge Ashford’s private chambers at the civil courthouse. They have three couriers waiting with the amended covenants."

Elias slowly closed the ledger. The heavy leather cover slammed against the mahogany with a sound like a pistol shot.

He looked at Delphine.

"Miss Aubrey," Elias said. "Camille does not know you are here. She thinks you are still sweeping the back stairs at the Garden District house."

"What do you want me to do?" Delphine asked.

"I want you to sit in the observation room behind the two-way glass," Elias told her, pointing toward the mirrored panel at the back of the boardroom. "Camille will try to read my face. She will try to gauge how much I suspect. But she doesn't know you can read her lips when she looks away from me to check her phone."

Delphine stood up. Her small frame was completely still, her eyes burning with an ancient, unyielding fire.

"I won't miss a word," she said.

Ten minutes later, the private elevator chimed again.

Camille Ashford swept into the boardroom like a vision of high-society perfection. She wore an ivory Chanel suit, her blond hair pinned into an immaculate French twist, smelling of gardenias and expensive vanilla. She carried a leather portfolio under her arm and a radiant, loving smile on her face.

"Elias, darling!" she exclaimed, crossing the carpet with her arms open. "Your secretary said it was urgent! I had to cancel my final dress fitting at Saks!"

Elias rose from his chair, his face an impenetrable mask of aristocratic calm. He allowed her to kiss his cheek—a cold, polite press of skin that held no warmth whatsoever.

"Sit down, Camille," Elias said smoothly, motioning to the leather chair directly across from him. "We have some paperwork to settle before the rehearsal dinner."

Camille sat, crossing her long legs with practiced elegance. She rested her portfolio on the table, her blue eyes scanning the empty room.