They weren’t the standard hotel security Adrian had hired.

They were former federal marshals, privately contracted by Marisol Venn—fully briefed, heavily armed, and positioned by the doors an hour before the ceremony began.

One of them put a flat, unyielding hand against Adrian’s chest, stopping his forward momentum instantly.

I lifted the microphone again.

It hadn’t been cut.

“These injuries were photographed, cataloged, and legally certified last night by the chief medical examiner at Saint Agnes Hospital,” my voice rang out, steady and commanding over the rising murmur of the panicked crowd.

“The certified doctor’s report, however, is no secret. It is currently resting in your laps.”