The wealthy man collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks. The arrogant crowd murmured in sudden, collective sympathy as the billionaire reached out, wrapping his arms around the fragile girl.
“Eleanor,” he sobbed loudly for the entire ballroom to hear.
But as his face buried into her thin shoulder, perfectly hidden from the guests, his grief instantly evaporated. His voice dropped to a lethal, icy whisper.
“I locked that door myself. I watched you burn. How are you alive?”
The little girl didn’t flinch. Her terrified expression vanished, replaced by a chilling, dead-eyed smirk.
“Mama shielded me,” she whispered back. “And she spent eight years planning tonight.”
The man pulled back, sheer panic flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to shout for his security guards, but the girl’s small fingers suddenly slammed back onto the keys, striking a harsh, dissonant chord.
It wasn’t a song. It was a signal.
The woman in the gold gown—the same one who had sneered at her moments earlier—suddenly shattered her champagne glass against the marble floor. Instantly, the heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom slammed shut, the deadbolts engaging with a loud, metallic *clack*.
The snobby guests dropped their facades. Men in tailored tuxedos drew suppressed weapons from inside their jackets; women in elegant evening gowns calmly blocked every exit. The ballroom wasn’t filled with high-society elites. It was filled with mercenaries.
From the shadows of the grand balcony, a woman with severe burn scars down the left side of her face stepped into the chandelier’s glowing light.
The man’s knees gave out.
The little girl adjusted her dirty dress. “You shouldn’t have laughed at the beggar, Father,” she said, her voice echoing in the trapped room. “Now, it’s Mama’s turn to play.”