Liam’s eyes bulged. “Clara, shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, I think she does,” I interrupted. I tapped a button on my wrist device.

The ballroom’s sound system crackled to life. Not music — the recording from the night before. Liam’s own voice, distorted but unmistakable, filled the room.

“Yes, Clara, I signed your name… If this ship goes down, I’m putting you on it. So give me the damn key before I make things very ugly for you…”

The gasps from the audience were like a physical wave.

In the elite circles of Charlotte, arrogance was tolerated, even admired — but criminal stupidity and the betrayal of one’s own blood were unforgivable.