The second guest line read Bianca Cole.

The room went completely silent, save for the hum of the air conditioning.

“What is this?” Graham muttered, his face tightening.

I pressed the button again.

A receipt from Cartier on Preston Road filled the screen.

It detailed the purchase of a diamond Love bracelet, totaling sixteen thousand dollars.

Below it was a photograph of Bianca wearing that exact bracelet, taken at a charity gala three weeks ago.

“Arden, turn this off,” Graham said, his voice dropping an octave as he reached for my hand.

I stepped back, out of his reach.

“The room was booked under the Whitaker-Crane corporate card, Graham,” I said. “The one tied to the discretionary fund.”

Bianca’s glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the white oak floor.

Red wine pooled around her suede heels.

“This is absurd,” Bianca whispered, her face draining of color as she looked around the room.

The guests stood frozen, their eyes darting between the screen, Graham, and Bianca.

“Arden, you are making a scene,” Graham hissed, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. “We will discuss this in private.”

“We don’t need to,” I said. “Because everyone here deserves to see how you manage assets.”

I pressed the button one more time.

The screen changed to show a series of internal wire transfers from Whitaker-Crane.

The destination account belonged to a shell company registered in Delaware.

“That’s proprietary firm data,” Graham said, his eyes widening in genuine panic now. “How did you get that?”

“I’ve been looking at your books for six months, Graham,” I said.

I glanced at the door just as a shadow crossed the frosted glass.

The heavy mahogany front door opened, and Elliot Crane walked into the foyer.

His overcoat was damp from the light Dallas drizzle, and his face was set in a hard, grim line.