“You’re fired.”
Frank did not move.
“I don’t work for you.”
“Security does.”
“Not like this.”
Frank reached for his radio.
“I’m calling my supervisor and police.”
Constance shouted:
“Good.”
The word echoed.
Edward heard it from near the bar.
He turned.
This time, he saw everything.
The torn dress.
The red mark on Aliyah’s cheek.
His son holding her arms.
Frank arguing with Constance.
Guests filming.
Edward began walking toward them.
“What the hell happened?”
Constance turned.
“She attacked me.”
The lie was immediate.
Aliyah stared at her.
Frank said:
“No, ma’am.”
Constance looked at him with pure hatred.
Frank continued.
“She did not.”
Edward looked at the cameras around the room.
Then at his wife.
Then at Aliyah.
He understood something terrible had happened.
He still did not know exactly who Aliyah was.
But now identity should not have mattered.
“Preston,” he said.
His son looked at him.
“Let go.”
Preston hesitated.
Constance snapped:
“Edward, don’t.”
And Edward did the worst thing he could have done.
He stopped.
He looked toward the board members by the ice sculpture.
Toward two senior lenders near the garden.
Toward the room full of people whose confidence he desperately needed.
His face tightened.
“We’ll sort this out.”
Then he turned away.
Aliyah watched him leave.
Second chance.
Gone.
By then, only seven minutes remained before the scheduled signing.
In the side room, Gerald Whitmore heard the slap.
At first, he thought someone had dropped a serving tray.
Then the music stopped.
Marcus Webb looked up from the signature pages.
“What was that?”
Gerald stood.
“I’ll check.”
Marcus closed the binder.
“I’m coming.”
“Give me thirty seconds.”
Gerald pushed through the service door.
He saw Preston first.
Then Constance.
Then the woman.
His body went cold.
He had met Aliyah once by video.
A forty-five-minute final diligence call three weeks earlier.
She had spent most of the conversation asking about environmental reserves, union agreements, and a litigation schedule.
Gerald remembered her face because she had found a drafting inconsistency on page fifty-three that three other lawyers had missed.
Now that face had a red handprint across it.
“Jesus Christ.”
He moved.
Fast.
Edward was halfway back to the bar when Gerald grabbed his arm.
“Edward.”
“Not now.”
“Edward.”
Something in the lawyer’s voice made him turn.
Gerald’s face had gone gray.
“That woman.”
Edward looked.
“What?”
“That is Aliyah Owens.”
The name did not register immediately.
Then it did.