The grand ballroom of the Sterling Estate in the Hamptons was less a venue for celebration and more a coliseum of wealth.

They couldn't just mug Silas on the street; he was surrounded by private mercenaries now that the federal walls were closing in. They needed a distraction. They needed chaos.

They decided to hit him where his ego lived. Chloe Sterling—the heiress who had insulted Clara on the first night—was hosting her annual Winter Solstice Gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was the last sanctuary for the disgraced Hawthornes to pretend they still mattered.

Clara and Alexander arrived at the Gala not as guests, but as conquerors. Clara wore a stunning, blood-red Valentino gown that commanded the room. Alexander walked beside her, radiating dangerous, untouchable power.

The moment they walked into the grand hall of the museum, the music seemed to falter. Julian and Silas were standing near the Egyptian exhibit, trying desperately to court foreign investors. When Silas saw Clara, his face contorted in absolute rage.

"Keep him distracted," Alexander whispered into Clara's ear, brushing his hand against her waist. The touch sent an unexpected, electric jolt up her spine. "I'll kill the lights in the east wing in exactly ten minutes."

Clara nodded and glided directly toward the Hawthornes.

"Silas," Clara purred, stepping into his circle of investors. "I’m surprised you showed your face. I assumed you'd be packing for a non-extradition treaty country by now."

"You arrogant little..." Silas hissed, stepping forward, his bodyguards tensing. "You think you've won? You think a television interview can take down my family? We are untouchable."

"No one is untouchable, Silas. My father taught me that," Clara said, leaning in close. She let her eyes drift to the heavy silver chain peeking out from beneath Silas's tuxedo collar. The biometric key.

Suddenly, the lights in the entire east wing of the museum died.

The crowd gasped. Plunged into darkness, chaos erupted. People shouted, bumping into display cases.

In the pitch black, Clara moved with the lethal precision of her Macau days. She stepped into Silas's space, driving the heel of her stiletto hard into his instep. As Silas gasped and doubled over in pain, Clara reached out, her deft fingers finding the silver chain. With a sharp, practiced twist, she snapped the clasp and pulled the heavy key free, sliding it down her bodice in a fraction of a second.

When the emergency backup lights flickered on seconds later, Clara was standing five feet away, looking perfectly innocent and mildly annoyed by the outage.