The champagne flute trembles in my hand—not from fear, but from the sheer voltage of recognition in the room. Cameras flash like strobe-lit gunfire. Across the ballroom, Adrian’s smile freezes when the announcer says my name: Eleanor Voss, fiancée to Damien Crowe.

I wasn’t supposed to exist anymore. Not after he framed me for embezzlement, not after I vanished from every database, every headline. And yet here I stand, wearing couture like armor, holding the hand of a man worth more than small nations.

Damien leans close, voice velvet against my ear. “They’re already calling it the marriage of the decade. But darling, this was never about love, was it?”

My pulse doesn’t waver. “No. It was about leverage.”

Behind us, Adrian pushes through the crowd, security trailing. Ahead, the balcony offers escape—or confrontation. The micro-mic in my earring buzzes: Lena’s warning, “They’re pulling your financial trace. You’ve got ninety seconds before your past goes live.”