HER CRUEL EX HUMILIATED HER AT DINNER—THEN THE MAFIA BOSS STOOD UP AND SAID, “SHE’S MY WIFE”

The invitation came engraved on thick ivory card stock: the Harbor Renewal Foundation Gala, hosted by Preston Hayes and Celeste Vale.

To Sloan, the words sounded like an arsonist inviting the neighbors to celebrate fire safety.

The foundation claimed to be funding affordable housing at Harbor Point. June had already found that nearly all its donations passed through companies connected to Preston's investors, including one business tied to Roman's late father. It was a perfect place to observe who stood beside whom. It was also the last room Sloan wanted to enter.

“Then don't,” Roman said when Miriam suggested attending. “We can investigate without putting her in front of Preston.”

Sloan folded the invitation. “I want to go.”

“Because of the records?”

“Because the next time he sees me, I don't want him picturing me on that floor.”

Roman studied her a moment. “Then tell us what you need.”

“I choose my clothes. I keep my own phone. No surprise declarations of love. And if I say we're leaving, we're leaving.”

“Agreed.”

Evelyn introduced her to a small dressmaker whose studio smelled of pressed linen and fresh coffee. Sloan refused anything covered in diamonds. She chose a dark green dress with simple sleeves and a neckline that let her breathe. When the dressmaker asked whether she wanted to hide the faint scar on her knee, Sloan said no.

At the studio, the dressmaker had insisted on practical details nobody photographed: a pocket deep enough for a phone, stitching strong enough to survive an anxious grip, and shoes Sloan could stand in for hours. June came along to the final fitting and took one picture for Sloan alone, without sharing it online.

“I look like a stranger,” Sloan said, studying the mirror.

“No,” June answered. “You look like yourself without Preston deciding where you stand.”

On the way to the gala, Sloan rehearsed the conversation she might have with Celeste. Her first three imagined speeches were fierce and cruel. She discarded them. She wasn't walking into that room to compete over a man who had cheated them both. She was going to look for a paper trail, stand beside people who respected her, and leave when she chose.

The ballroom that Saturday looked like the Obsidian's crueler sister: towering flowers, white linen, champagne flutes, and donors congratulating themselves on their generosity. Preston stood beneath a banner promising A SAFER TOMORROW. Celeste, in a fitted red gown, kept a hand on his arm and her eyes on every camera.

Sloan entered beside Roman. She felt the sudden turn of heads and fought the urge to shrink.

“You can still change your mind,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“Good.”

They moved toward the reception line. Preston saw them and dropped the smile he'd been wearing for photographs.

“Well,” he said, “the newlyweds.”

Sloan held out her hand. “Congratulations on the fundraiser. I hope the money reaches someone who needs it.”

He ignored her hand. “You've cleaned up nicely.”

“And you still mistake cruelty for wit.”

A donor standing nearby coughed into his glass. Roman made no effort to hide his amusement.

Celeste stepped forward. “Sloan, may I speak to you?”

“Here?”

“Somewhere quieter.”

Roman looked at Sloan; she nodded. He remained within sight as Celeste led her to the edge of a conservatory full of white orchids. Up close, Celeste looked more tired than beautiful. Her red lipstick had gathered at the corners of her mouth, and one of her hands shook.

“Preston thinks you have something,” Celeste whispered. “A tape. A map. I don't know.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He told me to find out whether Costa was using you. He said there were records that could destroy everything.”

“Then why are you warning me?”

Celeste stared through the glass at Preston, who was greeting a city commissioner. “Because last night I asked why someone had tried to access your father's medical file. Preston told me to stop being curious unless I wanted to end up like your family.”

Sloan felt the threat settle between them. “You could leave him.”

“You think I haven't tried?”

Before Sloan could answer, Preston appeared at the conservatory doors. Celeste's face smoothed into a social smile so quickly it made Sloan's stomach hurt.

“There you are,” Preston said. “The auction's starting.”

He offered Celeste his arm. She took it.

Back in the ballroom, an auctioneer introduced a framed rendering of Harbor Point's planned luxury residences. Preston donated the artwork personally. Guests applauded the promise of jobs and a glittering new shoreline. Sloan recognized the drawing beneath the watercolor overlay. It was based on her father's original layout—but the drainage corridor had become an underground parking entrance.

She raised her paddle.

Roman looked surprised. “You want that?”

“Very much.”

Preston noticed her bid and laughed from his table. He doubled it. Sloan doubled his. Before she could bid again, Roman rested his hand near her paddle, not touching it.

“It's your choice,” he said quietly. “But you don't have to spend money to prove anything to him.”

She lowered her arm. Preston won and bowed theatrically while the audience applauded.

Sloan smiled. She had already photographed the rendering and its project number from the auction catalog. Winning had never been the point.

At dessert, June sent a message: I checked that project number. It belongs to the revised environmental application, not the approved original. They're advertising an unapproved design.

A second message followed: Commissioner Victor Bell signed off on the revisions.

Sloan glanced across the room. Bell was standing with Preston near the service doors, talking to a stocky man in an immaculate gray suit. Roman saw him too, and his expression changed.

“Who is that?” Sloan asked.

“Vincent Sarto,” Roman replied. “Our former finance director. He was dismissed for concealing transactions.”

Sarto looked directly at them, lifted his glass, and smiled.

Moments later, every screen in the ballroom went dark. The foundation video disappeared. In its place appeared a photograph of Sloan kneeling beside the spilled scotch at the Obsidian Club.