The slap came so hard that for one strange second, I thought the crystal chandelier above the dining table had shattered. My head snapped to the side.

The ballroom descended into chaos.

Julian Thorne wiped the blood from his eye, looking wildly around the room. Security guards were converging on the alcove, pushing through the panicked crowd of socialites and politicians.

I ran down the mezzanine stairs, my heels clicking sharply against the marble, with Arthur right behind me.

When we reached the alcove, the scene was a disaster.

A heavy crystal vase lay shattered on the floor. Evan was pinned against the wall by two of Julian’s bodyguards, his tuxedo torn, a dark bruise rapidly forming on his jaw.

Sloane stood in the corner, clutching her designer purse, her eyes wide with terror as she realized the entire room was watching her.

“Get your hands off my son,” Arthur commanded, his voice cutting through the noise like a serrated blade.

The bodyguards hesitated, looking at Julian. Julian gave a curt nod, and they released Evan, who stumbled forward, gasping for breath.

Julian held up the silver flash drive, a triumphant, bloody smile on his face.

“You think you’ve won, Arthur?” Julian sneered. “I have the master files. The Connecticut project is dead. You’re ruined.”

I stepped forward, putting myself between Julian and Evan.

“Plug it in, Julian.”

Julian frowned, his smile faltering. “What?”

“Plug it in,” I repeated, pointing to the phone in his hand. “You have a portable adapter. Verify the files right now. In front of everyone.”

Julian’s eyes darted around the room. The Mayor, the police commissioner, and half a dozen journalists were watching with bated breath. He had to prove his dominance.

He connected the drive to his phone.

A moment later, his screen lit up. But it wasn’t blueprints.

The main projector screen of the ballroom—hacked by Vance’s team—suddenly flared to life.

It displayed a massive, high-definition slideshow of the surveillance photos Ruth had gathered. Sloane and Julian kissing. Sloane handing over corporate documents. Bank transfer records showing Thorne Enterprises paying Sloane Mercer hundreds of thousands of dollars.

And finally, an audio recording played over the ballroom speakers.

“She isn’t pregnant. She just needed a hook to ensure you wouldn’t back out…”

Julian stared at the screen, his face draining of all color.

“That drive contains a tracking trojan, Julian,” I said, my voice echoing in the silent room. “You just infected your own device. The FBI cyber crimes division is already tracing the backdoor to your corporate servers.”