Chapter 4 - The UnravelingBack inside the ballroom, the social order was fracturing. Khloe Davies had cornered Caleb near the wedding cake, her voice rising above the soft jazz quartet as she demanded to know why Roman Costa was looking at her husband like a predator eyeing its final meal.
Evelyn Reynolds was trying damage control, cornering prominent city donors and whispering furiously that I had "wormed my way into high circles through manipulation," but no one was listening. In our world, power is the only currency that matters, and Roman Costa was currently holding the printing press.
As Roman and I re-entered through the terrace doors, the music faltered. Khloe spun around, her tears smudging her expensive mascara.
"You!" Khloe pointed a trembling, manicured finger straight at my chest. "This was supposed to be our night! You couldn't stand seeing someone else win, could you? You had to bring a criminal to ruin my wedding!"
"Your wedding?" I stepped forward, letting go of Roman’s arm so I could stand entirely on my own two feet. The silk dress whispered against the floor. "Khloe, let’s be entirely honest. You didn't win a prize. You inherited a liability with a custom-tailored suit."
Caleb lunged forward, his face red with humiliation. "Sadi, enough! You’ve made your point. You wanted to make a scene, congratulations, everyone is looking at you. Now get out."
"Get out?" A smooth, dangerous voice cut through the air before I could answer. Roman stepped up beside me, his height and sheer physical presence instantly shrinking Caleb back a step. "Reynolds, you don't give orders in a room where you don't even own the chair you're sitting on."
Judge Davies pushed his way through the crowd, his face dark with suppressed rage. "Costa, this has gone far enough. I am warning you, as an officer of the court—"
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"An officer of the court who has been quietly steering municipal zoning permits toward shell corporations owned by your brother-in-law?" Roman interrupted smoothly, pulling a sleek silver flash drive from his pocket and tossing it lightly from hand to hand. "Arthur, let’s not talk about the law tonight. Let’s talk about judicial ethics. Or better yet, let’s talk about the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands that currently hold the remnants of your daughter's dowry—money funneled directly from the municipal transit fund."
The judge’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. The color drained from his face until he looked like a ghost under the harsh ballroom lights. Every prominent businessman within earshot took a sudden, synchronized step backward, distancing themselves from the judge as if he carried a plague.
