Chapter 2: Champagne on the Marble

Sebastian took one step toward her. Isabella took one step back. "You do not want the guests waiting," he said. "For my execution?" she asked. Pain crossed his face so delicately that, two hours earlier, she would have rushed to comfort him. Now she saw the craft in it. Sebastian Costa could make betrayal look like grief. Arthur Webb opened the red folder. "Miss Thorne, the audit committee received evidence this afternoon that you authorized illegal transfers from the Voss Memorial accounts into offshore Costa shell companies." "Voss?" Isabella repeated. It was a name she knew only because her father had once gone silent at dinner when it appeared on the news. James and Elena Voss, founders of a medical technology firm, killed in a car accident years before Isabella was old enough to understand why adults lowered their voices. Olivia made a small broken sound. "Bella, why would you do that?" Isabella stared at her. "You helped sew the drive into my dress." Olivia flinched as if slapped. The security men saw the flinch. That was the point. Sebastian's hand closed around Isabella's elbow. He lowered his mouth to her ear. "Do not fight in public. Martha will be kinder if you behave." "Kinder than what?" His smile barely moved. "Than letting the police find what is in your room." The ballroom doors opened. Every chandelier in Thorne House burned at once. Every face turned. Isabella saw senators, bankers, editors, charity chairs, old family friends, people who had watched her grow up and now looked at her as if scandal had already stained the silk. Martha stood on the dais with a champagne flute untouched beside her. White hair. Diamond brooch. Grandmotherly hands folded around a microphone. "My granddaughter has been used," Martha said, voice trembling with perfect sorrow. "Or she has used us. Tonight we will learn which." The room inhaled. Arthur projected the documents onto the wall: wire transfers, electronic signatures, board approvals carrying Isabella's name. Then came photographs of her entering a hotel she had never seen. A recording of her voice approving a transfer she had never made. A police warrant. Isabella looked at Richard Thorne, the man she called Father. He would stand. He would say this was impossible. Richard remained seated, his face gray, one hand gripping his wife's wrist beneath the table. Catherine Thorne would not meet Isabella's eyes. Sebastian moved to Olivia's side and placed a protective hand on her shoulder. The gesture was small. The room understood it. The fiance had chosen the sister. Martha raised her glass at last. "Until this is resolved, Isabella will step away from the trust, from the company, and from this family." "No," Isabella said. The microphone caught it. The word cracked through the ballroom. At the back of the room, a man she did not know turned toward her. Tall, black-haired, expression carved from winter. Ethan Hunt, the investment banker every paper called untouchable. He was not watching the scandal. He was watching Martha. Then Isabella's phone buzzed again. The unknown number sent a second message. Run before they move you to the west garage.