Chapter 5
The silence that followed Alban’s question was heavy enough to crush bone. The bright, cinematic lighting of the ballroom offered no shadows for Sibella to hide within. Every donor, every bodyguard, every member of the elite gathering was staring at her.
"Alban..." Sibella started, her American accent cracking into a desperate, breathy whisper. "I can explain everything. It's a banking error. The routing numbers for the offshore accounts—"
"Stop talking," Alban commanded softly.
He didn't raise his voice, but the absolute authority in his tone snapped her mouth shut instantly. Alban turned his attention away from his fiancée, dismissing her entirely in front of the city's most powerful people. He looked at one of the tall, broad-shouldered men standing near the perimeter of the room.
"Marcus," Alban called out.
The man in the dark suit stepped forward instantly. "Yes, Boss."
"Escort the donors to their vehicles," Alban said, his deep voice projecting calm control over the chaotic revelation. "The fundraiser is concluded. Ensure every check written tonight is refunded by tomorrow morning. My estate will not accept a single dollar under these circumstances."
"Right away, sir," Marcus nodded, gesturing to the other bodyguards to begin politely but firmly directing the confused and whispering guests toward the grand double doors.
Alban turned back to Nerelle. The housemaid was shaking, her bare scalp catching the bright chandelier light. Alban took off his tailored suit jacket. With surprisingly gentle hands, he draped the expensive, heavy fabric over her shoulders, covering her trembling frame.
"Go to my private study on the second floor, Nerelle," Alban told her, his eyes softening just a fraction. "My personal physician will meet you there in five minutes. You are not to lift another tray in this house. You will rest."
"Thank you, Mr. Rookmere," Nerelle whispered, pulling the jacket tightly around herself. She turned and hurried toward the staff elevators, desperate to escape the eyes of the remaining room.
Once the ballroom was largely cleared of civilians, leaving only Alban’s loyal men and a petrified Sibella, the atmosphere shifted from an elegant gala to a mafia tribunal.
Alban walked slowly to the serving trolley. He picked up a clean linen napkin and wiped a stray drop of spilled champagne from the silver tray. He took his time, letting the terror marinate in Sibella’s veins.
"You stole from a girl dying of cancer," Alban finally said, turning to face her. "You took the money I earmarked for her life, and you diverted it. You embarrassed her in my home. You insulted my protection."
"Alban, I did it for us!" Sibella cried out, taking a frantic step toward him, her evening gown sweeping the marble. "The money you were throwing away on a maid—it was millions! We needed liquid capital! Your rivals in Chicago are buying up the ports! I took the medical funds and funneled them into a lobbying firm in D.C. to secure the new shipping contracts! I was protecting your empire!"
Alban’s cold, sharp eyes narrowed. "You think I need you to steal from my staff to fund my wars?"
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"You weren't seeing the big picture!" she pleaded, tears of genuine panic streaming down her rosy cheeks. "You let sentimentality blind you! I secured the senators! I bought the judges!"
"Did you?" Alban asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He tapped the screen twice. "Let's see who you really bought."
