Chapter 3

The entire banquet hall erupted into a chaotic buzz. 

Monica pressed her hand over her mouth to hide a giddy smile. 

Phil's face went from pale to a dark, furious red. Being dumped in front of London’s elite by a woman he considered street trash was the ultimate humiliation.

"You're canceling it?" Phil sneered, his voice shaking with pure rage. "Who the hell gave you the right to talk to me like that?"

He snapped his fingers, and the head of security instantly rushed over. 

"Take this crazy bitch to the security room," Phil barked, pointing right at my face. "Strip search her. Leave nothing on her. Once you find Monica's earring, call the cops. I want her locked up tonight. Let’s see who gave her the guts to mess around on Graham territory."

"Yes, Mr. Graham," the security head nodded grimly. 

Monica stepped forward, her voice shrill and echoing across the quiet hall. "Search her thoroughly! Check her shoes! Who knows what else she's stuffed in her ugly dress. People from the country will steal anything not nailed down!"

Two massive security guards stepped up to me.

Around us, the crowd just watched. To them, a nobody who offended the Graham family was already a dead woman walking. 

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice cold. 

"Move," one of the guards grunted, reaching out to grab my shoulder. 

I didn't step back. Instead, I pulled out my phone and rapidly typed out a message to the Byers family investment director. 

[Freeze all Barclay credit lines for Graham Real Estate. Halt the West End redevelopment project. Execute immediately, regardless of cost.]

I hit send. 

"Did you hear me? Put the phone away!" the guard growled, reaching for my device. 

"Excuse me! Step aside!" 

A sharp, authoritative voice sliced through the tension. 

The crowd parted again, but this time, the whispers were entirely different. People were nervously stepping back, making way for an older man in a pristine white tuxedo. 

It was Mr. Henderson, the chief auctioneer for Christie’s Europe. He was a man who handled billions in jewels and art, someone even Phil’s father had to book an appointment months in advance to see. 

Phil immediately dropped his angry facade and put on a polite smile, stepping forward to greet him. "Mr. Henderson, what a surprise. I apologize for the disturbance, we were just dealing with a little thief—"

Henderson didn't even look at Phil. He shoved past him, practically sprinting until he stopped dead in front of me. 

When his eyes landed on the glaring red mark and the trace of blood on my lip, the color instantly drained from his face. 

"Miss Byers!" Henderson gasped, his voice trembling. He bowed at a sharp ninety-degree angle, beads of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Oh my god... I am so, so sorry! The Victorian pink diamond you wanted is already secured in the vault for you, but... your face! Who did this to you?!"

He spun around, glaring at the massive security guards with pure, panicked fury. "Back off! Get your filthy hands away from her right now! Are you out of your damn minds?! Do you have any idea who you're touching?!"

Dead silence. 

You could hear a pin drop in the banquet hall. 

Monica’s smug smile froze on her face. Her eyes darted from Henderson to me, looking like she had just seen a ghost. 

"Mr... Mr. Henderson?" Phil stammered. "What are you talking about? She's a nobody. She just stole my sister's earring!"

Henderson finally turned to look at Phil, his expression turning ice-cold. "Mr. Graham, I suggest you watch your words. Miss Byers could buy your entire family's estate with her pocket money. She has no need for a cheap hundred-thousand-pound trinket."

Before Phil could even process that sentence, his phone started vibrating violently in his pocket. 

He pulled it out. It was his executive assistant. He answered it. 

"Boss! We have a massive problem!" The assistant's voice was cracking with panic. "Barclays just froze all our accounts for the West End project! They said they received a top-level directive to terminate all cooperation!"

Phil’s jaw dropped. "What? That's impossible! Call them back!"

"I tried!" The assistant was practically crying now. "But that's not all! The Royal Charity Foundation just issued a unilateral statement. They're terminating every single partnership with us. All our sponsorships are being pulled right now!"

"The Royal Foundation? Why? Who gave the order?!"

"I don't know! Boss, the stock market just reacted! We dropped 17% in the last ten minutes! The board is going insane. They are demanding you return to headquarters immediately or they're voting to remove you from the CEO position!"

The call cut off. 

Phil’s phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the marble floor. The color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse. He slowly raised his head, staring at me with a look of pure, unadulterated terror. 

He suddenly realized exactly who he had just slapped. 

Monica was trembling violently, backing away from me, her cheap stolen earring completely forgotten. 

Right at that exact moment, the main stage lights flared to life. The gala host stepped up to the microphone, his expression incredibly solemn. 

He cleared his throat, his booming voice echoing through the massive hall. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host announced, his tone filled with absolute reverence. "Please allow me to formally introduce the largest anonymous donor of tonight's Royal Children's Medical Charity Gala..."

He gestured directly toward where I was standing. 

"...Joyce Byers!"