My husband left me, covered in bruises and unconscious, outside the emergency room, then told the police that I had attacked him first

The transformation was drastic. In the span of an afternoon, Elias had called in favors from people who asked no questions. A stylist had arrived at the apartment, chopping my long, light brown hair into a sharp, jet-black bob. Heavy, dramatic makeup altered the soft contours of my face, replacing my usual understated look with the sharp, aggressive glamour of a high-society socialite. I slipped into a sleek, emerald-green gown that Elias had procured—a dress that screamed confidence and old money.

When I looked in the mirror, the fragile heiress Celeste had created was gone. The woman staring back at me looked dangerous.

"You look..." Elias paused in the doorway, wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. For a fleeting second, his professional facade slipped, and genuine admiration flashed in his eyes. "...exactly like someone who belongs in the VIP section."

"Who am I tonight?" I asked, adjusting the diamond-studded earpiece hidden beneath my dark hair.

"You are Elena Rostova, a private acquisitions consultant from London representing a silent European buyer," Elias explained, handing me an elegant clutch purse. "I've already planted your name on the guest list through a contact. I will be at the bar, acting as your legal counsel. We maintain a professional distance to avoid drawing attention. Your only objective is to locate your father and get him to a secluded room."

The drive to the Grand Hotel was silent, the tension in the car thick enough to cut with a knife. As we pulled up to the valet, the sheer scale of the event hit me. Paparazzi flashed cameras at the arriving guests, and armed security guards in black suits flanked the massive golden doors of the ballroom. This was Celeste's domain. One wrong move, and I would be dragged back to the lake house, never to be seen again.

Elias stepped out and offered me his arm. "Breathe," he murmured softly. "You own the room. Don't let the room own you."

I took a deep breath, raised my chin, and walked into the lion's den.

The ballroom was a sea of crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the muted hum of wealthy people discussing money. I navigated the crowd with deliberate grace, scanning the room. My eyes caught Victor Sloane standing near the ice sculpture, laughing with a senator. A cold shiver ran down my spine, but I forced my gaze past him.

And then, I saw her.

Celeste was holding court at the center table, dripping in diamonds, playing the perfect, tragic wife. She looked magnificent and lethal. Beside her, seated in a high-backed wheelchair, was my father.

My breath caught in my throat. He looked devastatingly frail. His suit hung loosely on his frame, and his eyes stared blankly ahead, completely detached from the glittering party around him. The sight of him, a man who used to lift me on his shoulders and command boardrooms with booming laughter, reduced to a hollow shell, ignited a blazing fire of hatred within me.

"Elias," I whispered into the hidden microphone in my collar. "I see him. He's at the center table. Celeste is with him."

Elias's voice crackled softly in my ear. "Understood. Wait for a distraction. The catering manager owes me a favor. In exactly two minutes, a waiter is going to spill a tray of red wine on the senator's wife near Victor. Celeste will have to go over for damage control."

I waited, my pulse pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Exactly two minutes later, a loud crash echoed from the other side of the room, followed by an indignant shriek. The crowd parted as a frantic waiter apologized profusely over a ruined silk dress. Victor rushed over, and just as Elias predicted, Celeste excused herself to manage the high-profile disaster.

My father was left momentarily alone, guarded only by a single security man looking towards the commotion.

I moved. I didn't hesitate. I glided gracefully toward the table, positioning myself between the guard's line of sight and my father. I leaned down, pretending to inspect a floral arrangement, and placed my hand gently over my father’s trembling fingers.

"Dad," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Dad, it's me."