The weight of the moment pressed down as Marcus posed the question that turned the night inward, away from spectacle and toward choice. What did I want to do? The simplicity of it was almost cruel. For years, decisions had been made around me, for me, against me. What I saw was not remorse, but fear—fear of exposure, of loss, of being seen clearly at last. I looked at Lucas, whose life had been shaped by a lie as much as mine had been shaped by rejection. He was not my enemy; he was another casualty of Frederick’s obsession with image. My voice, when I spoke, surprised me with its steadiness.

Frederick lunged forward with promises and pleas, invoking boards and investors and chaos, but his words felt hollow now. Lucas asked what would become of him, and in that moment, I felt something loosen inside my chest. I offered him honesty instead of exile, a place built on reality rather than illusion. His nod was small, but it carried relief. Around us, guests murmured, recalibrating their smiles, their loyalties shifting like weather vanes. Frederick collapsed into a chair, a man confronted not by an enemy, but by consequences. The applause that followed was muted, uncertain, nothing like the roar that had greeted him earlier.