The Waldorf Lennox had a way of making people feel like they had arrived somewhere that mattered. That was the point

Gabriel Vance did not look like a savior; he looked like a man who knew the precise weight of every hard object in the room. He walked toward Ricket with a slow, deliberate pace, his hands relaxed at his sides, his posture utterly devoid of panic.

Ricket let out a sharp, dismissive laugh, turning his head toward his entourage standing near the bar. "Are you serious right now? Do you have any idea who I am, buddy? I'll have your job before the appetizers are served."

Gabriel didn't answer. He didn't introduce himself, nor did he argue about his employment status. He simply stopped two feet away from Ricket, placing his body directly between the heir and Camille. He took off his charcoal suit jacket with a smooth, practiced motion, turned his back to Ricket without dropping his guard, and gently draped the heavy fabric over Camille's exposed shoulder and torn bodice.

"Hold this around yourself, ma'am," Gabriel said quietly, his voice low and steady. "You're okay."

Camille looked up into his face. Up close, she noticed the faint white scar running through his left eyebrow and the flat, unblinking focus in his eyes—the look of someone who had seen real violence and was entirely unimpressed by the theater of a spoiled bully. She clutched the warm coat tight around her chest, her hands trembling slightly not from fear, but from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Step back toward the doors," Gabriel instructed gently before turning back around to face Ricket.

Ricket’s face turned a mottled crimson. He wasn't used to being ignored, and he certainly wasn't used to being physically displaced by someone wearing a name tag. "Get your hands off her, you absolute trash," Ricket snarled, lunging forward to grab Gabriel's collar. "I'm going to ruin you!"

Gabriel didn't flinch. As Ricket’s hand reached out, Gabriel’s left hand shot up like a striking viper, catching Ricket’s wrist mid-air. With a simple, micro-adjustment of leverage—a joint manipulation taught to Navy SEALs to disable opponents without breaking a sweat—Gabriel turned Ricket’s arm outward.

Ricket let out a high-pitched gasp as his knees buckled, his body forced downward onto the polished marble floor. His glass of bourbon shattered beside him, splashing expensive liquor across his Italian leather shoes.

"The lady asked you to leave her alone," Gabriel said, leaning down slightly so his voice rattled only in Ricket's ear. "You didn't listen to her. You're going to listen to me."

"Let go of me! Security! Call the police!" Ricket shrieked, his face pressed uncomfortably close to the spilled alcohol on the tile.

The hotel security team—four men in blazers who had been standing near the main doors—finally jogged over, looking panicked. The lead guard took one look at Gabriel, recognized him immediately, and froze.

"Gabe..." the guard stammered, pulling out his radio. "What's going on here?"

"Mr. Hail tore the lady's dress and assaulted her," Gabriel said calmly, releasing Ricket's wrist and taking a single step back. "I intervened. Get him out of the ballroom before he embarrasses his father any further."

Ricket scrambled to his feet, clutching his sore wrist, his tailored hair completely disheveled. He looked around the ballroom, expecting his wealthy peers to cheer for him or demand Gabriel's immediate arrest. Instead, he met five hundred pairs of silent, judging eyes. Even the general was staring at him with cold disgust.

"You're done, Vance!" Ricket spat, backing away toward the exit as his friends grabbed his arms. "You hear me?! You're dead in this town! I'm calling management right now!"

Ricket turned and stormed out of the ballroom, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating silence.

Gabriel turned back to Camille, his posture immediately softening. "Are you alright, Miss Westbrook?"