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

The ballroom grew increasingly boisterous as five-course meals of poached lobster and wagyu tenderloin were served. While waiters rushed to serve the high-rollers, Isabella remained near Ethan, ensuring his table was stocked and comfortable, despite the glares of other staff members who feared Harrington’s wrath.

Suddenly, a heavy hand grabbed Isabella’s shoulder, yanking her back toward the service corridor.

"Ow!" she gasped.

Ethan’s eyes turned cold as he spun his chair around.

Standing in the shadow of the velvet drape was the banquet manager, a rotund, sweaty man named Henderson, wearing an ill-tailored tuxedo and smelling of stale cigars.

"You stupid girl!" Henderson hissed, his spit spraying through the dim light. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Mr. Harrington personally called corporate! He wants you stripped of your uniform and tossed onto 5th Avenue this instant! He threatened to revoke the St. Regis catering contract for the entire season!"

"Mr. Henderson, Mr. Harrington was pouring wine on a guest!" Isabella defended herself, clutching her apron. "I was only doing my duty!"

"Your duty is to shut up, smile, and keep the billionaires happy!" Henderson barked, raising a hand to rip off her brass nametag. "Give me that badge! You're done! And don't expect a single penny for this week's shift!"

"Touch her again," Ethan’s voice rang out, "and you will spend the rest of your natural life sweeping floors in a federal penitentiary."

Henderson froze, his eyes bulging as he looked down at the man in the wheelchair. "Vance? Listen here, pal, I don't care who you used to be. You're broke, you're crippled, and you don't call the shots in this hotel!"

Ethan did not raise his voice. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an unmarked, matte-black titanium card. It had no numbers, no bank logo—only a laser-engraved golden crest of a falcon perched on an iron branch: The private sigil of the Vance Sovereign Trust.

Ethan tossed the card onto the linen-covered tray Henderson was holding. The metal clinked heavily.

"Flip it over, Henderson," Ethan commanded softly.

Sweat poured down the manager's temples. He picked up the heavy metal card with trembling fingers, turning it toward the dim light. On the reverse was a micro-embossed private ledger code and the direct personal emergency line of Jean-Luc Mercier—the global chairman of the St. Regis luxury group.

"You... this is..." Henderson choked, his face draining of all color until it matched the tablecloth.

"I purchased seventy-two percent of the St. Regis International Hospitality Group through an offshore proxy three weeks ago," Ethan whispered, his tone as sharp as an executioner's blade. "You are speaking to the man who signs your CEO's salary checks. Now, Henderson, hear me carefully."

Henderson’s knees visibly shook. "Y-yes, Mr. Vance. Sir. Anything."

"Isabella is now the Executive Guest Liaison of this entire gala. If so much as a stray speck of dust lands on her shoulder, you will be unemployed before sunrise, blacklisted across the hospitality world. Do you understand?"

"Understood, Mr. Vance! Crystal clear! Miss Isabella... please forgive me! Anything you need, anything at all!" Henderson bowed repeatedly, his voice squeaking with pure terror.

Isabella stood frozen, staring between the quivering manager and the quiet, imposing man sitting calmly in the wheelchair. "Mr. Vance... who... who are you really?"