Julian’s hands, which had ruthlessly signed away thousands of livelihoods, trembled violently as he stared at the gold ring. The red crest seemed to bleed under the chandelier’s blinding glare.
“This crest…” Julian gasped, all the arrogant color draining from his billion-dollar face. “It belongs to the founding bloodline.”
The ragged woman didn’t blink. “I came to reclaim what was stolen.”
Cassandra’s aristocratic mask shattered into pure, ugly rage. “Julian, have you lost your mind? She’s a street rat!” She whipped her head toward the female security guard flanking her. “Draw your weapon! Throw this trash out!”
The guard stepped forward, her hand dropping seamlessly to her holster. She unclipped her firearm in one fluid motion—but instead of aiming at the old woman, she leveled the barrel directly at Cassandra’s diamond-draped chest.
A collective, suffocated gasp choked the ballroom.
“What are you doing?!” Cassandra shrieked, freezing in terror.
“My job, ma’am,” the guard replied coldly. “Protecting the true owner of the Kensington Estate.”
The old woman smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin that suddenly made her look terrifyingly regal. She wasn’t a ghost; she was the grim reaper of their reputations.
“Thirty years ago, little brother,” the old woman whispered, her voice slicing through the dead silence, “you forged my death certificate and locked me in the dark to steal our family’s empire. You thought I’d rot. But mud is just dirt mixed with rain. And dirt is where seeds grow.”
Julian collapsed to his knees, the weight of his thirty-year lie instantly crushing him.
The old woman turned to Cassandra, her eyes locking onto the centerpiece of the auction.
“You asked if I knew what that diamond costs,” the true heir said, her voice dripping with absolute authority. “I do. It costs you everything. Now, all of you—get out of my house.”