The torrential downpour was not supposed to happen. It was a violent, unscripted anomaly that threatened to wash away the meticulously curated perfection of the annual Metropole Gala. Sheets of freezing rain lashed against the asphalt of the city’s most exclusive avenue, turning the iconic crimson expanse of the red carpet into a dark, blood-red river.

In the grand ballroom on the ground floor, the elite were in a state of panic. The backup generators finally kicked in, bathing the room in harsh, fluorescent light. The romantic illusion of the Sovereign Ball was shattered.

Arthur Hawthorne stood near the exit, surrounded by bodyguards, barking into a satellite phone, desperately trying to route a private helicopter to the roof.

The grandfather clock in the atrium began to chime.

Dong.

At the first stroke of midnight, the massive LED screens surrounding the ballroom—meant to display the silent auction items—suddenly flickered to life.

Dong.

Arthur froze. Every billionaire, socialite, and reporter in the room turned to the screens.

Dong.

The screens didn't show auction items. They displayed a high-definition video of Arthur Hawthorne, recorded just twenty minutes prior in the penthouse, signing a confession of murder.

The audio blared through the PA system: "You think this is over? Julian has the offshore accounts. The liquid assets are locked..."

The crowd gasped in absolute horror. The paparazzi, realizing they were witnessing the fall of a god, began snapping photos of Arthur in a frenzy.

Dong.

Arthur dropped his phone. He looked around wildly. The people who had worshipped him just an hour ago were backing away as if he were diseased.