The terminal went dead silent. The only sound was the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant rumble of jet engines. Every camera, every microphone, every eye was fixed on Elianna.

Kiana saw her opening. She pressed a hand to her chest, her lower lip trembling. A single, perfectly timed tear rolled down her cheek. "Please," she whispered to the cameras, "don't ask her about that. Our family has suffered enough."

It was a masterful performance. It confirmed every rumor without saying a word. It painted Elianna as the villain and Kiana as the grieving victim.

Kiana reached out and grabbed Elianna's hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her nails digging into Elianna's skin. "Sister, just tell them you didn't mean it. Tell them you were young and foolish. Tell them you were used."

It was a trap. A verbal snare. If Elianna said yes, she admitted guilt. If she said no, she looked like an unrepentant monster.

Elianna snatched her hand back. "Don't touch me."

Another reporter, a man with a greedy look in his eye, stepped forward. "Ms. Baker, is it true that the secrets you leaked caused your adoptive father's company to go bankrupt? Is it true that his business partner committed suicide because of you?"

The question was a slap in the face. It was a lie, a twisted version of the truth that Solis PR had spun six years ago. But the worst was yet to come.

Kiana let out a shaky breath. "And the car accident... Daddy... my brother..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air. She was connecting the espionage case to the deaths. She was telling the world that Elianna was a murderer.

The crowd's mood shifted. The curiosity turned to disgust. The disgust turned to anger.

"Monster!" someone shouted.

"How could she show her face here?" another voice hissed.

Elianna looked at Kiana. She saw the triumph gleaming in her eyes. She saw the satisfaction of a knife well-placed. Using the deaths of her father and brother-using the people Elianna loved more than life itself-as a prop for her little show.

Something inside Elianna snapped. It wasn't a hot rage. It was a cold, absolute stillness. The world narrowed down to Kiana's smug face.

Elianna didn't think. She didn't hesitate. Her arm moved on its own.

The crack of the slap echoed through the terminal. It was sharp, violent, and final.

Time stopped. The reporters froze. The cameras kept flashing, capturing the moment in high definition. Kiana stood frozen, her head turned to the side, a bright red handprint already blooming on her cheek.

Elianna's palm stung. The sensation grounded her. She looked at Kiana, who was slowly raising a hand to her face, her eyes wide with shock and genuine pain.

"That," Elianna said, her voice vibrating with barely contained fury, "was for my father."

Kiana's mouth fell open. A sob escaped her lips. The tears were real now, born of pain and humiliation. The reporters were shouting, the flashes were blinding, but Elianna only had eyes for the woman in front of her.

She raised her hand again. High. Palm open.

Kiana saw it. She let out a piercing scream, cowering away.

The scream died in Kiana's throat as the second slap landed. The sound was heavier this time, meatier. It snapped Kiana's head to the other side.

"That was for my brother," Elianna said. Her voice was ice water. It froze the air between them.

Kiana stumbled back, her hands covering her face. Her carefully applied makeup was ruined, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivers. Her hair was a mess. She looked nothing like the polished socialite she had been five minutes ago. She looked like a wounded animal.

Elianna stepped forward. She grabbed a fistful of Kiana's designer collar and yanked her close. The fabric tore slightly. Kiana gasped, her eyes wide with terror.

"Listen to me," Elianna whispered, her lips inches from Kiana's ear. "If you ever use their deaths as a prop again, I won't slap you. I'll break your neck."

The threat was delivered with such chilling calm that Kiana felt her knees buckle. She had never seen this Elianna. The old Elianna was a victim. This woman was a predator.

Elianna let go. Kiana staggered backward, nearly tripping over her own heels. She caught herself on a pillar, her chest heaving.

Elianna turned to the horde of reporters. They were clicking away, documenting every tear, every smear of lipstick. "Take your pictures," Elianna told them, her voice flat. "Show the world how the Solis family heiress reacts when asked about the relatives who died for her inheritance."

The cameras immediately swung toward Kiana. The sight was ugly. She was pathetic, sniveling, and broken. It wasn't the narrative she had planned.

Kiana realized she was losing. The sympathy was gone. She forced herself to stand up straight. She wiped her face, smearing the mascara further. She tried a watery smile. "Sister... I know you're angry. I know you hate us. But violence isn't the answer. You're only hurting the people who love you."

It was a desperate pivot. The victim card, played again.

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Maybe she went too far," someone whispered. "She hit her," another said. "That's assault."

Elianna felt the shift. The crowd was fickle. They loved a slap, but they hated a bully. Kiana was trying to paint her as the aggressor.

"The people I love are dead," Elianna said, her voice cutting through the noise. "Because of your family."

Kiana flinched. The moral high ground crumbled beneath her feet. She opened her mouth to speak, to spin another lie, to find another angle.

"I disagree."

The voice was deep, commanding, and utterly calm. It cut through the chaos of the terminal like a knife through smoke.

The crowd parted. Heads turned. The reporters lowered their cameras for a second, confused.

A man in a wheelchair rolled slowly into the space between Elianna and Kiana. He was dressed in the formal uniform of a United States Army officer. The dark green fabric was crisp, the buttons polished. Rows of ribbons adorned his chest, catching the harsh light of the terminal. His shoulders were broad, his posture perfect despite the chair.

The crowd fell silent. The aura of authority radiating from him was palpable. It demanded respect without asking for it.

His eyes found Elianna. They were a piercing, intelligent blue. He gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Elianna stared at him. A jolt of surprise shot through her. This was him. This was Baldwin Armstrong. The man who was supposed to be at the marriage bureau. The man who was sitting in a wheelchair.

He turned his chair to face Kiana. His expression was unreadable, but the look in his eyes was enough to make Kiana take another step back.

The silence stretched. The reporters were frozen, their microphones hovering in mid-air. The man in the wheelchair was an anomaly. A soldier. A cripple. A ghost.

Kiana found her voice first. It was shaky, but the malice was still there. She pointed a manicured finger at Baldwin. "Who the hell are you? Elianna, you're supposed to marry Julian! Now you're hooking up with a crippled soldier?"

The word "crippled" hung in the air. It was a calculated insult, meant to demean both Baldwin and Elianna. It was meant to paint her as a woman who preyed on the weak.

A ripple of unease went through the crowd. Some looked disgusted by Kiana's cruelty. Others looked intrigued by the drama.

Baldwin's expression didn't change. He simply turned his chair a fraction more, positioning himself directly between Kiana and Elianna. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a judge's gavel.

"First, watch your mouth, Ms. Solis. Publicly slandering a serving officer of the United States Army in front of this many witnesses is an exceptionally poor decision. One I suggest you reconsider."

Kiana's face paled. She hadn't expected him to fight back. She had expected him to be embarrassed, to slink away.

"Second," Baldwin continued, his tone even and measured, "you are mistaken. She doesn't have to marry anyone. Because she already has a fiancé."

He paused. The entire terminal seemed to hold its breath. The cameras zoomed in on his face, capturing every micro-expression.

"Me."

The word dropped like a bomb. The terminal erupted. The reporters shouted over each other, their voices a cacophony of disbelief.

"Delta Force?" a reporter near the front gasped, recognizing the unit patch on his uniform. "Holy shit."

Kiana looked like she had been slapped again. Harder. A Delta Force commander was a far cry from a "crippled soldier." He was elite. He was connected. He was dangerous.

Elianna stood behind him, her mind racing. She hadn't expected him to reveal his identity so publicly. It wasn't part of the plan. It was a massive risk.

Kiana scrambled for control. "Fiancé? That's ridiculous! She has a contract with the Cromwells! You're being played, soldier. She's a liar and a cheat!"

She was screaming now, her composure completely gone. "She's sleeping with both of you! She's a gold-digger!"

The reporters seized on the new narrative. The cameras swung back to Elianna, hungry for more dirt.

"Commander Armstrong, did you know about the Cromwell arrangement?"

"Ms. Baker, how many fiancés do you have?"

The questions were a barrage. Kiana's lips curled into a smug smile. She had turned the tide. She had made Elianna the villain again.

Baldwin ignored the shouting. He turned his chair slightly and looked up at Elianna. His blue eyes were steady, reassuring. He held out his hand. It was a large, calloused hand. A soldier's hand.

Elianna looked at it for a split second. It was a choice. Take his hand and step into the unknown, or stand alone and be torn apart.

She reached out and placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. The grip was firm, grounding. It was a silent promise. A shield.

Baldwin squeezed her hand once, then turned back to face the mob. His jaw was set. His eyes were hard. He was no longer the calm observer. He was the man in charge.