The atmosphere within the grand ballroom of the Royal Victoria Hotel, once thick with the scent of ten thousand roses and the arrogance of the elite, suddenly curdled into pure, unadulterated terror. The rhythmic, melodic swelling of the Avison National Symphony Orchestra had ceased, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Tom Marriott, the Five Star Battle God, stood on the dais like an ancient deity of judgment, his gaze piercing through the crowd until it locked onto the huddling figures of Tristan Flynn’s branch of the family.
Eva Flynn, who only moments ago had been preening like a queen in stolen jewels, felt her knees turn to water. Beside her, Eddison Flynn was shaking so violently that his teeth audibly chattered.
"When I delivered the dowry to the Flynn f
