The metallic click of the handcuffs echoed through the silent ballroom.

The guests stared, some whispering, others holding up their phones to record.

Sloane looked as if she might faint, her hands gripping the stage curtain.

“Take the dress off, Sloane,” I said quietly.

“It doesn’t belong to you.”

She looked at me, then at Harrison, who was being led down the stage steps.

She began to tear at the hidden zipper, weeping silently.

The officers escorted Beatrice toward the lobby, her head bowed to avoid the cameras.

Harrison looked back at me one last time before he reached the doors.

His face was twisted with anger, but I felt nothing but a deep sense of relief.

The heavy oak doors of Aster Hall closed behind them.

The room was silent for a long moment.

I looked at the giant screen, which still displayed the forged signature.

I turned to Grace.

“We need to clear the room,” I said.

“I’ll handle it,” Grace said, nodding.

She stepped to the microphone and announced that the gala was concluded.

The guests began to leave, talking in hushed, excited tones.