Harrison stiffened, his fingers tightening around his glass.

Matteo walked straight toward Sloane.

She shrank back against the velvet sofa, her hands fluttering to her collarbone.

Matteo did not touch her, but his gaze was like a scalpel.

He pointed at the intricate silver embroidery along the left side of the bodice.

“The stitches are uneven,” Matteo said. “Someone tried to alter the waist to fit you, Miss Whitaker. You ruined the line.”

“It fits perfectly,” Sloane snapped, her face flushing red under her heavy makeup.

“No,” Matteo said. “It does not. Because you do not know the secret of the Celestia.”

Harrison took a step forward, his leather shoes creaking on the floorboards.

“We have had enough of this theater,” Harrison said. “Leave now, or I will have the security staff throw you out.”

Beside the doorway, my attorney, Grace, stood quietly.

She held her leather briefcase against her chest, her sharp eyes recording every movement in the room.

Beside her, Dr. Marren stood in the shadows of the hallway, his face pale and sweating.

Grace caught my eye and gave a single, firm nod.

Matteo reached toward the heavy skirt of the gown.

He did not touch Sloane’s skin, but he grabbed the reinforced seam near the interior corset lining.

“Clara Bennett knew how your family operated, Harrison,” Matteo said, his voice tight. “She knew you would try to strip her daughter of everything.”

He pulled a thick, hidden silver thread at the inner seam of the bodice.

The silk gathered, then parted with a sharp, tearing sound.

Sloane gasped, clutching the front of the dress as the fabric loosened around her ribs.

A thick, cream-colored envelope fell from the hidden lining of the silk bodice.

It hit the polished floor with a soft, distinct slap.

The handwriting on the front was unmistakable to everyone in the room.