The suffocating tension in the Astor Hotel ballroom was heavy enough to crack glass.
Every eye in the room was fixed on Table 4. At the back of the hall, James stood slightly taller, a greasy, vindicated smirk plastered across his face.
Emma let out a breath she had been holding, her shoulders dropping in profound relief.
They had done it. They had exposed the fraud. In ninety seconds, security would drag Ryan Russo out of the venue, cementing his ruin.
At the head of the table, Diana Lockridge sat perfectly still, her champagne flute resting against her bottom lip. She didn't intervene. She watched Ryan with the ruthless, calculating gaze of a hawk assessing a variable.
Ryan didn't break a sweat.
He had expected this.
The elite ecosystem was built on verification and gatekeeping. He hadn't just anticipated the doubt; he had actively craved it.
The higher they built the gallows, the harder the trap would snap shut.
