Over Marcus’s shoulder, I saw Alexander reach the bottom of the grand staircase.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his coat was gone.

He took in the scene instantly—the guard holding my arm, Marcus leaning in, the bag clutched to my chest.

Alexander’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek.

He looked at the security guards posted at the main exit, then at the crowded center of the room where the city’s wealthiest donors stood.

He knew he couldn’t reach me before Marcus took the drive.

He looked at me, his eyes burning with a sudden, desperate decision.

He gave me a single, sharp nod.

Then, Alexander turned toward the main stage where the microphone stood for the evening’s announcements.

He did not walk; he strode with the authority of the man who had built Vale Global from the ground up.

He pushed past a waiter holding a tray of crystal flutes, sending several shattering onto the marble.

The sharp crack of breaking glass echoed through the high-ceilinged room.

People turned.

Alexander reached the raised platform and stepped up to the silver microphone.