“There’s something else you should know about tonight…”
Isabella paused. The silence in the ballroom was deafening.
She slowly turned back, the harsh glare of the spotlight catching the diamonds at her throat.
“That fifty grand you just bet?”
She snapped her fingers.
A man in a sharp grey suit stepped from the shadows of the VIP lounge.
Alex’s face instantly drained of color. It was his wealth manager.
“It was the last of your trust fund,” Isabella said smoothly.
“What are you talking about?” Alex stammered, raw panic finally cracking his arrogant facade. “My family’s company—”
“—was hostilely acquired this morning at 9:00 AM,” Isabella interrupted. “By me.”
A collective gasp ripped through the elite crowd.
Alex stumbled backward, desperately reaching for the blonde woman in the silver dress—his date. But she stepped away, her annoyed expression completely gone.
She didn’t look at Alex. She looked at Isabella.
And bowed.
“All contracts are signed, Ms. Laurent,” the blonde woman said crisply, pulling a sleek black folder from her clutch.
Alex’s jaw dropped. “Chloe? You… you set me up?!”
“I evaluated an asset,” Isabella corrected, her voice dropping to a lethal, icy whisper. “And I found it completely worthless.”
She pulled a crisp, white maid’s apron from the folder—the exact one she had been wearing fifteen minutes ago.
She let it fall. It landed softly on the marble floor, right at Alex’s expensive Italian leather shoes.
“You’re not a VIP guest here anymore, Alex,” Isabella said, her eyes locking onto his terrified gaze. “Your accounts are frozen. Your legacy is mine.”
The orchestra began to play again. A brutal, elegant waltz.
“But we are short-staffed,” Isabella smiled, turning away for the last time. “Put it on. You have fifty grand to work off.”