THEY LAUGHED AT HIS WHEELCHAIR—UNTIL HE STOOD UP AND BOUGHT THE ENTIRE ROOM!

Chad’s arrogant laughter sliced through the brief moment of intimacy. "Answer to you? Vance, you couldn't pay her salary with buttons! Security!"

Before security could push through the throngs of spectators, the grand orchestra on the dais struck up a booming, triumphant overture. The gala's master of ceremonies, an aristocratic auctioneer named Julian Croft, tapped his microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Honored benefactors! Please, take your seats for the premier event of the evening: The Vance Foundation Annual Asset Allocation and Philanthropy Gala!"

The distraction worked. The socialites, ever fickle and craving spectacle, turned their attention toward the stage. Chad sneered down at Ethan one last time. "Enjoy your little defender while she lasts, Vance. After tonight, you won't even have a foundation to hide behind."

With an arm wrapped securely around Brooke's waist, Chad turned and strolled toward Table One—the royal table directly beneath the spotlight, where name cards plated in twenty-four-karat gold were set.

Ethan remained in the back corner. Isabella stayed by his side, quietly offering him a glass of ice water and a fresh linen towel.

"You shouldn't have defended me, Isabella," Ethan murmured, wiping the remaining wine from his wrist. "People like Chad Harrington destroy things they consider beneath them."

"I was raised to treat people with respect, sir," Isabella said, adjusting the lapel of his jacket with quiet dignity. "It doesn't matter if you are in a wheelchair or standing on a throne. You are a man, and he was a bully. I couldn't stand by and let them treat you like that."

Ethan looked deeply into her eyes. For months, since the accident, he had lived in an ocean of deceit. The moment he had appeared weak, his business partners had sold his stock short, his board of directors had drafted betrayal agreements, and Brooke—the woman who had sworn to love him till death—had climbed into Chad’s bed within forty-eight hours.

He had orchestrated this entire night as a crucible. A final test.

And in a room of five hundred wealthy elites, only one person had passed.

From his inner breast pocket, untouched by the spilled wine, Ethan withdrew a tiny earpiece made of black titanium. He slipped it into his ear, tapping it twice.

"Marcus," Ethan spoke quietly into his lapel microphone. "Are the feeds clear?"

A crisp, British voice crackled through the earpiece. *"Crystal clear, Mr. Vance. The ballroom’s local network is completely patched through our private server. I am recording every transaction, every whisper, and every asset signature."*

"Brooke and Chad?"

*"They believe they have successfully acquired forty-eight percent of Vance Enterprise debt via offshore shell corporations. They intend to trigger a hostile takeover at midnight, claiming you are mentally and physically incompetent to manage the trust."*