If you really love me, you’re not going to ask how much they need. You’re going to donate, period.”

The metal detector swept down my body. A high-pitched, steady beep echoed through the grand ballroom as the wand passed over the small of my back.

Brendan let out a heavy, rehearsed sigh, shaking his head with theatrical heartbreak. “Chloe... please tell me you didn't. Why would you do this? After everything my family has done for you?”

Gasps broke out among the patrons. Scarlett stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with tears of pure, manufactured sorrow. “Oh, Chloe. I gave you that dress out of the kindness of my heart. How could you be so ungrateful?”

The security guard reached toward the back seam of my dress, his fingers grasping the fabric to reveal the sewn-in contraband.

“Pull it out,” Arthur Montgomery ordered coldly. “Let everyone see what this girl brought into my home.”

The guard pulled. With a sharp rip of threads, he extracted the small, flat electronic chip and held it up to the chandelier light.

There was no emerald necklace. There was no diamond.

Just an industrial RFID tracking beacon, stamped with the official insignia of the *Montgomery Private Vault Logistics*.

The room went completely silent.

“What is that?” an older woman in the front row asked, squinting through her spectacles. “That’s not a necklace. That’s a warehouse inventory tag.”

The security guard looked baffled. He swept the wand over me again. Total silence. Not a single click.

“Check her purse!” Scarlett screeched, losing her composure for a fraction of a second. “Check the bag! She has it!”

I calmly unzipped my clutch and turned it upside down. A tube of lipstick, a compact mirror, my driver’s license, and a set of car keys tumbled onto the marble floor. Nothing else.

“Now,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel, “perhaps someone should check why Miss Montgomery’s personal security tag was sewn into the lining of a dress she gave me two hours ago.”

Arthur Montgomery’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of crimson. “This is ridiculous. Someone scan the perimeter! The necklace was stolen!”

The second guard swept his scanner across the surrounding tables. As he passed the velvet cocktail chairs near the bar, the wand shrieked violently.

The guard reached into the deep pocket of the coat draped over the chair—the coat belonging to Tiffany, Liam’s socialite girlfriend. He pulled out the heavy, sparkling weight of the *Tears of Seville*.

Tiffany’s jaw dropped. “What?! That’s not mine! I didn't put that there! Liam, tell them!”

Liam looked like he was about to vomit. He stared at me, then at Brendan, his hands trembling as he backed away from the table.

“You set this up,” I said quietly, looking directly at Brendan while two dozen high-society cameras flashed in our direction. “You, Liam, Mason, and Scarlett. Just like the fake accident in Bakersfield yesterday. Just like the blood you made me donate so you could throw it in the trash.”

The murmur in the room escalated into a roar of hushed, scandalized whispers.

“What is she talking about?”

“Did she say Bakersfield?”

“Who threw away blood?”

Brendan lunged forward, grabbing my wrist with enough force to leave fresh bruises. “Shut up, Chloe. You’re having a breakdown. Let’s get you out of here before you humiliate yourself any further.”

“Don't touch me,” I said, pulling my arm free with an icy force that made him stumble back.

Suddenly, the massive dual projector screens on either side of the grand staircase flickered to life.

They weren't displaying the Montgomery Foundation’s promotional video of underprivileged youth programs. Instead, an audio waveform pulsed across the black screen, accompanied by crisp, crystal-clear sound that echoed through every speaker in the ballroom.

*“The bracelet one was hilarious,”* Liam’s voice boomed through the hall, digitized and amplified to deafening clarity. *“We told her Brendan had lost her anniversary gift, and Chloe spent half the night searching for it in the rain.”*

*“She ended up with a hundred-and-three fever,”* Mason’s voice followed, accompanied by roaring background laughter.

*“Only three left,”* Mason’s recorded voice continued. *“Ninety-nine revenge schemes, and the deal is over. Then Brendan dumps the little charity case and takes Scarlett to Paris.”*

The ballroom was paralyzed. Nobody breathed.

Scarlett’s mother dropped her champagne glass, the crystal shattering across the marble floor like a gunshot. Arthur Montgomery was shouting at the audiovisual technicians, waving his arms frantically, but the booth had been locked from the inside by Leo Sterling fifteen minutes earlier.

Then came Brendan’s voice, ringing out with chilling, indifferent cruelty: