Chapter 4

The ballroom was awash in blinding flashes from the cameras.

Dressed in a custom couture gown, Quinn stood confidently on stage, passionately recounting the inspiration behind Phoenix Pavilion.

Without the slightest hesitation, she claimed that the five years I had spent working myself to exhaustion were nothing more than an idea she'd conceived while strolling along the Seine in Paris.

Thunderous applause filled the ballroom, and compliments poured in from every direction.

Smiling graciously, Quinn lifted a hand to quiet the crowd. Then, as if by accident, she knocked an old notebook off the lectern.

It was my journal, recording my unspoken love for Brandon, my selfless devotion over the past five years.

She picked it up, flipped it open to a random page, and leaned toward the microphone.

"Looks like our restorer really dreamed of rising from the dirt-poor ashes and marrying into wealth. She even catalogued every offhand remark Bran ever made."

Quinn covered her mouth with a laugh and cast a provocative glance toward the backstage entrance.

The room erupted with laughter as camera flashes immediately converged on the journal.

To them, I was nothing more than a pathetic gold-digger, someone trying to climb the social ladder through pitiful devotion.

I pushed open the backstage door and stormed straight onto the stage.

The moment Brandon saw me, his face changed. He rushed forward and planted himself firmly in front of Quinn.

Snatching the journal from her hands, his eyes swept across the pages filled with my heartfelt words.

Far from being moved, he reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, flying into a furious rage.

Those honest words completely shattered the long-held belief that I'd only ever stayed by his side for money.

Flustered, he threw the journal into the decorative brazier beside the stage.

The yellowed pages caught fire immediately. The flames devoured every word, crackling as they burned.

“Enough! Haven’t you stirred enough trouble?”

Trying to hide the panic surging inside him with even harsher words, he shouted at me, "Who did you write all this disgusting nonsense for? You think this proves you’re not after my money? It’s your honor to be allowed to ghostwrite for Quinny…"

As I watched my heartfelt words turn to ashes, I suddenly felt an immense sense of relief.

"Money?"

In front of every media outlet in the room, I pulled the voice recorder from my pocket and hurled it straight at his face.

The recorder's hard casing struck his cheekbone with a sharp crack, drawing blood before bouncing onto the stage. It hit the floor and the playback button triggered automatically.

Zane's mocking words about embezzling the charity funds echoed throughout the ballroom with crystal clarity.

The ballroom fell deathly silent. Every eye turned toward Brandon.

His face drained of all color, and his eyes widened in horror.

"You’ve deceived me for five years with kindness you stole from someone else, Brandon. You disgust me."

My voice carried each word clearly through the microphone, reaching every corner of the hall.

At that moment, the tightly shut ballroom doors burst open.

Sloan entered with a team of elite lawyers, daylight pouring in behind them.

The entire hall fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. The atmosphere was so heavy it felt like a weight on everyone’s chest.

Without a word, Sloan removed his suit jacket and gently draped it over my slender shoulders.

Then he turned his icy gaze toward Brandon, who was teetering on the edge of collapse on the stage.

Sloan’s voice was cold enough to freeze the room. “Mr. Aker, let's discuss the charity funds you defrauded from my foundation.”

Every camera in the ballroom immediately pivoted toward Sloan and Brandon.

Brandon's legs buckled. He barely managed to stay upright, his lips trembling uncontrollably.

As Sloan and I walked toward the exit, I suddenly stopped in my tracks.

Turning back, I looked at Brandon on the stage. My voice was cool, “Mr. Aker, you'd better pray Quinn welds the base of Phoenix Pavilion shut before the Paris Awards."

I wasn’t loud, but those words struck him like a bolt of lightning.

"Otherwise, during next week's global live broadcast, I'll make sure the century-old Aker family legacy is buried alongside the five years you stole from me."

Brandon’s head snapped up as an inexplicable terror seized his throat.

His lips parted, trying to call my name, but before a single word could leave his mouth, the doors closed with a resounding boom behind us under the escort of Sloan's bodyguards.