The Apex Gala was a galaxy of liars. Men in thousand-dollar suits whispered poison, and women in diamonds smiled like beautifully polished knives. I moved through them, a ghost in a black silk dress that clung to me like a second skin. They saw a junior analyst, a pretty face. They had no idea they were looking at an executioner.
On the grand stage, Matthew was in his element, a microphone in his hand and a spotlight on his face. He spoke of resilience, of market recovery, of a brilliant future. He was selling a fantasy, and this room of predators was eating it up. Beside the stage, Julian stood with a flute of champagne, basking in the reflected glory, the perfect picture of a loyal second-in-command.
My moment came. While a schmaltzy video of company achievements played, I slipped away
