That one sentence confirmed everything. She wasn’t grieving my mobility or mourning the future we’d planned. She was waiting for the pillars of my company to buckle so she could pick through what fell.

Then someone knelt beside my chair.

It was Clara — the quiet young woman who’d kept the main house running for three years. She wore the standard black-and-white uniform, but she carried herself with a dignity most of the billionaires in that room couldn’t manage.

Without a word, she reached out and smoothed the blanket Vanessa had knocked aside with her heel.

“You still deserve to be treated kindly, Mr. Adrian,” she whispered.

Her voice was barely more than a breath, and it cut through the noise of the ballroom like a scalpel.