THE MIDNIGHT FLOOR WAS NEVER WET BY ACCIDENT: THE RUTHLESS SECRET BENEATH THE GLITTERING GALA

The heavy silence that followed Detective Marcus Vance's entrance was broken only by the hum of the overhead chandeliers and the steady, rhythmic breathing of little Lily, who had stopped crying and was now staring intently at the manila folder in the detective's hand.

"Marcus," Arthur said, his voice regaining a thin veneer of forced calm as he adjusted his cuffs. "You are making a grave mistake. This is a private charity event. You have no jurisdiction over internal foundation audits without board approval."

"The board approved this three days ago, Arthur," Marcus replied, stepping onto the polished floor and stopping just a few feet away from Eleanor and the damp white cloth. He didn't look at Arthur; instead, his eyes shifted to Margaret, who still held the heavy white bucket. "Good evening, Margaret. I see you kept the evidence safe, just like we discussed on the encrypted line."

Margaret gave a microscopic nod, her jaw tightening. "I did my duty, Detective. But the child shouldn't have been brought into the hallway. It was too dangerous."

"It was the only way to ensure the files weren't wiped completely," Eleanor explained softly, looking down at Lily. "Margaret tipped me off when she saw Arthur carrying the master drive toward the service elevator. We needed a distraction to keep him from flushing the data down the sub-basement incinerator."

Julian Vance lunged forward, his face red with fury. "This is a conspiracy! You two staged this entire audit to stage a hostile takeover of the Vanguard board! Marcus, you're my own cousin—how could you participate in this slander?"

"Family loyalty ends where federal fraud begins, Julian," Marcus said flatly, pulling several glossy photographs from the manila folder. He held them up for the surrounding guests to see. The smartphone flashlights immediately redirected their beams toward the images, revealing clear, high-resolution shots of Arthur and Julian transferring millions of dollars into offshore accounts registered under shell corporations.

"Those are fabricated," Arthur hissed, stepping toward Marcus with his fists clenched. "Deepfakes generated by artificial intelligence. Anyone with a computer can make a rich man look guilty."

"Is that why your private yacht is currently anchored in international waters with its transponder disabled?" Marcus asked, stepping closer to Arthur until they were almost chest-to-chest. "Or is that another AI generation?"

Arthur opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. His eyes darted toward the grand exit, calculating the distance.

"Don't even think about running," Eleanor warned, her voice cutting like glass. "The perimeter is secured by federal marshals. Every door out of this ballroom is locked from the outside."

"Locked?" Arthur let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Eleanor, you absolute fool. You think the marshals work for you? Check your phone right now and tell me who authorized their deployment."