The silence in Belle’s Diner did not feel like air anymore. It felt like glass—brittle, frozen, and waiting for a single breath to shatter into a thousand lethal pieces.

Crystal chandeliers cast a brilliant, warm amber glow over a mahogany banquet table long enough to seat twenty people. Fine porcelain, polished silver cutlery, and flickering beeswax candles reflected off the polished wood surface.

Alina stood before the full-length antique mirror in the adjoining suite, staring at her reflection in absolute disbelief.

The girl in the mirror didn't look like a tired waitress from Belle’s Diner, nor did she look like the exhausted data analyst who had spent three days drowning in spreadsheets. She wore a floor-length, backless midnight-blue silk gown that clung to her silhouette with effortless elegance, a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet resting loosely against her wrist—a casual loan from Christian’s private vault. Her dark hair was swept up into an intricate chignon, a few soft tendrils framing her face.

The door clicked open, and Christian stepped into the room. He wore a bespoke tuxedo, the black lapels framing his sharp jawline and the pale scar above his eyebrow. He stopped, his dark eyes sweeping over her. For a fraction of a second, the carefully constructed armor around him seemed to crack, revealing a raw, unfiltered appreciation.

"You look..." Christian paused, searching for the word. "Inappropriate for a diner."

Alina managed a nervous, self-deprecating smile. "I feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin. If I trip over this hemline in front of your associates, I expect you to catch me."

"I always catch you, Alina," Christian said quietly, stepping closer until the space between them vanished. He reached out, his warm fingers brushing gently against her bare shoulder, sending a sudden, electric shiver down her spine. "Remember your role tonight. You aren't the analyst. You aren't the waitress. You are my guest—the newest, most valuable asset in our portfolio. And Marcus Vance will be watching your every move."

"Is everything in place?" she whispered, her heart hammering against the silk of her dress.

"Julian has locked down the network firewalls," Christian replied, his voice dropping into a low, steady rhythm. "The trap is set. All we have to do is walk down those stairs."

Ten minutes later, the grand dining room was alive with the low murmur of polite conversation and the soft clink of crystal champagne flutes.

Four men sat around the mahogany table: aging board members, silent partners, and senior executives of Moretti Logistics. And sitting near the head of the table, impeccably groomed in a charcoal suit with a silk pocket square, was Marcus Vance.

As Christian and Alina descended the grand staircase, every head at the table turned.

Vance’s polished, flint-chip eyes locked onto Alina. For a fraction of a second, the smooth, professional mask slipped, revealing a flicker of intense, calculating confusion. He hadn't expected the girl from the diner to reappear here—let alone draped in designer silk at Christian Moretti’s private table.

"Gentlemen," Christian announced smoothly, guiding Alina to the vacant seats at the center of the table. "Allow me to introduce Miss Alina Ford. She has recently joined our inner circle as a special advisor on... strategic acquisitions."

A chorus of polite, murmured greetings echoed around the table.

Vance raised his champagne flute, his eyes never leaving Alina’s face. A thin, dangerous smile played at the corner of his mouth. "An unexpected addition to the portfolio, Mr. Moretti. I wasn't aware we were expanding our recruitment pool... downmarket."

The air in the room instantly went sub-zero.

Before Christian could speak, Alina lifted her own glass of champagne, her hand remarkably steady, and met Vance’s gaze head-on.

"Sometimes, Mr. Vance," Alina said, her voice carrying clearly across the silent room, "you have to look at the bottom of the ledger to find the filth that's rotting the foundation."