Over the swell of the cellos, a scattering of polite applause rippled through the ballroom. It sounded like dry leaves scraping against concrete.
Vivian Ashford remained at the microphone, absorbing the undivided attention of the European proxies and Wall Street elites. Her charcoal gown caught the light of the crystal chandeliers, casting her as the grieving, noble heir. Across the room, standing near the towering marble fireplace, the representative from the House of Savoy-Genoa slowly lowered his balloon glass. The silent acknowledgment hung in the air, a visible validation of her bold claim to the Knight bloodline.
Julianne stood motionless beside Christian. The champagne flute in her hand felt heavy. Her legal mind violently recalibrated the board, processing the catastrophic shift
