Chapter 4
The vibrant colors of the ballroom—the ruby reds of the dresses, the emerald greens of the floral arrangements—seemed to sharpen to an agonizing clarity under Alban’s unblinking stare. The air conditioning hummed, but the room felt suffocatingly hot to Sibella.
She forced a bright, brittle smile, stepping gracefully into the light to address the situation, desperate to spin the narrative before the elite crowd of donors realized the implications of the maid's words.
"Oh, Alban, it's just a simple misunderstanding of the estate's finances," Sibella said, her voice brisk and deliberately dismissive. She gestured widely toward the waiting guests with her diamond-clad hand. "The costs of her experimental treatments were astronomical. We are running a charity, not a bottomless pit. We can’t waste every donation on one maid. The foundation has to look after the broader community."
Alban remained anchored beside Nerelle. He did not move to close the distance between himself and his fiancée. He simply watched her, his sharp, intimidating eyes analyzing the panic hidden beneath her polished, rosy-skinned exterior.
Nearby, a group of wealthy donors slowly lowered their champagne glasses, exchanging deeply uncomfortable glances. The glamorous facade of the fundraiser was cracking, revealing a rotting foundation.
"A misunderstanding," Alban repeated, his voice smooth and deadly.
"Exactly," Sibella laughed, a high, nervous sound. "I put the remaining funds into a high-yield trust for the foundation. Nerelle simply didn't understand the allocation process. She's a sweet girl, but she isn't a financial planner."
Alban looked briefly at the glamorous, life-sized fundraising portrait of Nerelle, then slowly brought his gaze back to fix Sibella with an absolute, unblinking stare. The artistic tattoo on his neck seemed to shift as his jaw locked.
"That is a fascinating explanation, Sibella," Alban said, quiet and cold. "Especially since I never used foundation money for her hospital bills. I paid them directly from my personal accounts. And I’ve still been sending money regularly."
Sibella’s forced smile completely disappeared. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Alban took a single, slow step toward her. The polished leather of his shoe struck the marble like a judge's gavel.
"A quarter of a million dollars transferred every month to the medical liaison account you manage," Alban stated, his voice carrying the lethal precision of a sniper's bullet. "If the hospital accounts are empty, and Nerelle is carrying trays to pay for her own radiation..."
Alban paused, tilting his head slightly, his cold eyes stripping away every layer of Sibella’s deceit.
"Then whose treatment did I pay for yesterday?"
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A collective gasp rippled through the guests. Nerelle raised her startled, wet eyes toward Alban, clutching the wig tightly against her apron.
Sibella’s flawless, rosy face turned the color of ash. Her eyes darted frantically toward the ballroom exits, calculating distances, weighing her survival. But she knew the truth. When Alban Rookmere asked a question like that, the exits were already sealed.
