Chapter 3
Standing near the towering mahogany pillars of the ballroom, Julian Vance felt the heavy velvet weight of the evening pressing down on his chest. His hands, neatly buried in the pockets of his tuxedo trousers, were clenched into tight, silent fists. His gaze remained locked on Victoria, who was now smoothing the immaculate fabric of her black gown, her chest still rising and falling with lingering adrenaline as hotel managers hovered around her with obsequious apologies.
Julian’s mind raced backward through the evening, parsing every word, every stolen glance, every calculated gesture. The missing necklace had been insured for a sum that could bail out a failing regional bank. Victoria had made sure everyone knew it was in the safe; she had practically advertised its location during the pre-gala cocktail hour. Yet, when the security team had finally arrived to inspect the scene, Victoria’s demeanor hadn't been that of a panicked victim of a heist. It had been the calculated performance of a prosecutor sealing an indictment.
Julian took a slow step forward, cutting through the parting sea of nervous guests. His voice, when it finally broke the tense silence between them, was deceptively calm, stripped of all marital warmth. "What the hell?" he murmured, stepping into her immediate personal space so the surrounding vultures couldn't catch every syllable. "So, who else is involved?"
Victoria froze mid-gesture, her jeweled hand hovering inches from her diamond-encrusted earlobe. Her head snapped toward him, her dark eyes flashing not with sorrow or relief, but with a sudden, defensive panic that she tried desperately to mask behind a haughty glare. "What are you implying, Julian? That I planned this? That I wanted some dirty little waitress to humiliate me in front of the entire board?"
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"I'm not implying anything yet," Julian replied, his voice dropping an octave, steady and mercilessly analytical. "I'm simply asking a basic question. That bag hasn't left your side all evening. You handed it to your assistant at eight o'clock, and she placed it in the VIP coat room. Yet, somehow, it ended up on the floor by the service cart, opened, with the necklace neatly displayed for the cameras to catch. Statistically speaking, Victoria, miracles don't happen in hotel service corridors."
Victoria’s lower lip trembled for a fraction of a second—a microscopic crack in her armor—before her jaw set into a hard, unyielding line. She looked away, scanning the crowd for an escape route, but the guests were watching them now with undisguised curiosity. The illusion of a fairy-tale marriage was bleeding out on the expensive wool carpet, and Julian had no intention of applying a tourniquet until he had the whole truth.
