The Billionaire's Cruel Mistake.

"You ruined a twenty-thousand-dollar suit, and you think 'sorry' will fix it?" The music died first. Then the laughter. Then every head in the Blackwood ballroom turned to me. I was still holding the empty champagne tray, my fingers shaking so hard the glasses rattled. The golden stain was spreading across Alexander Blackwood's white shirt, down his black jacket, dripping onto his polished shoes. "I — I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't see you —" "You didn't see me?" His voice was low, cold, the kind of cold that made rich people lean in to listen. "I am six-foot-three and standing in the middle of my own ballroom. How exactly did you miss me?" My face burned. Two hundred guests. Waiters frozen. Someone whispered, "Poor girl." I had learned to keep my head down since I was fourteen. Keep quiet. Survive. But something in his tone — like I was dirt under his shoe — made my throat tighten with anger, not fear. "It was an accident," I said, louder than I meant to. "If you weren't pacing around like you own everyone in the room —" "I do own everyone in this room," he cut in. "Including you, for tonight." That was it. "No, you don't," I said. "You own the building. You don't own me." A gasp rippled through the crowd. Alexander Blackwood blinked. For one second, the billionaire who never got talked back to looked... surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. "What's your name?" "Isabella Carter." "Isabella Carter," he repeated, like he was memorizing it to punish me later. "You are fired. Get out of my house." Security was already moving toward me when his assistant, a thin man in glasses, rushed in, pale. "Sir, sorry to interrupt — it's about the Black Diamond. And... it's about her father." Alexander froze. "What did you say?" "Daniel Carter," the assistant whispered, but in the silent room, everyone heard. "He was in the Blackwood records. From 2011." My heart stopped. My father died fifteen years ago. He was a driver. A quiet man who fixed old radios and never spoke about powerful people. Why was his name in this house? Alexander looked at me again. This time, not with disgust. With something sharper. Suspicion. Curiosity. Something that made my skin prickle. "Don't let her leave," he said. Before I could run, security grabbed my arms. And before I could scream, another waiter shouted from the display table: "The diamond! The Black Diamond is gone!" The five-million-dollar necklace that had been on display all night had vanished. And two hundred pairs of eyes turned back to me — the clumsy waitress with champagne on her hands.