Public Humiliation

Kael’s POV

The Badrutt Grand Ballroom in Zurich was blinding. Crystal chandeliers hung low from the gilded ceiling, casting sharp, glittery light over the sea of high-society elites, foreign diplomats, and corporate titans. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne, heavy velvet, and suffocating hypocrisy.

I stood near the entrance, smoothing down the fabric of my simple midnight-blue silk dress. It was elegant, but understated far too modest for an event where women wore fortunes around their necks.

"Table 24, ma'am," the usher said, barely glancing at me as he pointed toward the darkest corner of the room, right next to the kitchen doors.

Table 24.

The peripheral table reserved for minor press, forgotten donors, and unwanted guests.

I didn't argue. I walked calmly across the polished hardwood, feeling the subtle prickle of eyes on my back. I could hear the hushed whispers rippling through the crowd like dry leaves in the wind.

"Is that her? Banjo Vance’s hidden wife?"

"Look at what she’s wearing. She really came from nothing, didn't she?"

"I heard she trapped him with a contract. A shameless gold-digger."

I took my seat, keeping my back straight and my chin parallel to the floor. My fingers tightened beneath the tablecloth, clutching my small clutch purse so hard my knuckles turned white. Three years of this. Three years of playing the silent, meek ghost while Zurich’s elite ripped my dignity to shreds. They had no idea that the money filling the bank accounts of half the men in this room was underwritten by the Kael Syndicate my family's legacy.

Suddenly, the hushed whispers turned into a sudden, collective gasp. Camera flashes burst like lightbulbs near the grand staircase.

I turned my head.

Banjo was walking down the steps. He looked impossibly handsome, commanding, and dangerous in his bespoke black tuxedo. But my breath caught in my throat when I saw who was clinging to his arm.

Tahlia.

She walked beside him with a fragile, hesitant smile, looking as pale and innocent as a porcelain doll. But it wasn't her presence that drove a physical dagger into my chest it was her dress.

She was wearing a vintage, crimson silk gown embroidered with delicate silver thread.

My heart completely stopped. My mouth went dry.

That dress didn't belong to Tahlia. It was a custom legacy piece created decades ago for the Vance family matriarch a dress explicitly reserved for the reigning wife of the Vance empire to wear at the annual winter gala. It was currently kept in the Vance central family vault.

A vault only Banjo had the key to.

I stared in utter disbelief as Banjo carefully guided Tahlia down the stairs, his hand rested protectively against the small of her back. He looked at her with a gentle, watchful concern that he had never, not once, directed toward me in three full years of marriage.

They were brought straight to Table 1 the head table right in front of the main stage.

The local society photographers swarmed them immediately, light flashes illuminating Tahlia’s glowing face and Banjo’s stern, protective posture.

A sudden click-flash right in front of my face snapped me out of my daze.

I blinked, looking up. A tabloid reporter was standing two feet from my table, his lens pointed down at me.

"Look this way, Mrs. Vance!" he sneered, his tone dripping with fake courtesy. "Give us a bitter look! How does it feel watching Miss Sterling wear the Vance matriarch gown while you sit by the kitchen?"

Click. Click. Click.

The bright light blinded me. I knew what the morning papers would print. They would publish photos of Tahlia looking like a fairytale queen next to Banjo, contrasted with photos of me sitting alone in the dark corner like a discarded, jealous servant.

I didn't hide my face. I looked straight into the camera lens with cold, dead eyes until the reporter finally smirked and walked away to chase better angles of Table 1.

Ten minutes later, I stood up. The air near the kitchen doors was getting suffocating, and the smell of Tahlia’s rose perfume, which seemed to carry across the entire hall, was making me sick. I needed a moment of silence.

I slipped out the side exit into the dimly lit, quiet corridor leading toward the private balcony overlooking the snowy gardens.

"You shouldn't have come tonight, Merinda."

I froze.

Banjo was standing near the shadow of the velvet curtains, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He stepped into the warm wall light, his dark amber eyes scanning my face with that familiar, heavy indifference.

"I was invited as your wife, Banjo," I said, my voice low and steady despite the storm raging inside my chest. "Even if you forced me to sit by the kitchen doors."

Banjo took a slow sip of his drink, leaning his heavy shoulder against the wall. "You knew Tahlia was making her public debut tonight after her recovery. Sitting you at the head table would have caused unnecessary press drama. It was a business decision."

"A business decision?" I walked closer to him, stopping right in front of him. I pointed a trembling finger toward the ballroom doors. "And giving her the matriarch gown? Giving her my late mother-in-law's dress? Was that a business decision too?"

Banjo’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening instantly. "Tahlia needed a boosting of confidence tonight. She felt insecure about her appearance after being bedridden for weeks. The gown suited her. Don't be petty, Merinda."

Petty.

A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "She is your childhood friend, Banjo. I am your legal wife. You publicly humiliated me tonight in front of the entire country!"

Banjo set his glass down on a nearby window ledge with a loud, sharp thud. He stepped into my personal space, his tall frame looming over me, blocking out the light.

"You are my wife on paper because of a contract your family begged for," he growled low in his throat, his breath smelling of rich whiskey. "Tahlia is fragile. She actually needs my protection. You? You are tough, cold, and calculated. You don't need anything from me except the money you spend."

He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his eyes hard as flint. "So know your place, Merinda. Do not make a scene tonight, or I swear"

Before he could finish his threat, his private encrypted phone vibrated violently in his jacket pocket.

Banjo pulled it out, frowning at the screen. He answered it instantly, pressing it to his ear. "Speak."

I watched his face. Slowly, the arrogant, cold composure on his rugged features vanished. His face drained of color. His eyes widened slightly as he listened to the voice on the other end.

"What do you mean?" Banjo asked, his voice dropping into a tense, dangerous whisper. "The Australian coastal deeds were transferred? By who?"

He pulled the phone away from his ear, staring at an incoming file alert on his screen.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I knew what was on that screen.

Banjo looked up from his phone, his amber eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, wild mix of shock and rising suspicion.

"Merinda" he whispered, his voice trembling for the very first time. "What did you just do?”