Annalise shifted her weight, trying to relieve the pressure on her heel. The movement was small, barely a flinch, but the sharp sting of the blister made her wince.

Angelo's gaze dropped instantly. He didn't just glance; he locked onto her foot like a hawk spotting prey.

Before she could blink, he went down on one knee.

The gesture was so sudden, so out of place for a man of his stature, that the nearest guests stopped talking. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of the ruthless Angelo Molina kneeling at the feet of the Knowles heiress.

Annalise's heart slammed against her ribs. Panic flared, hot and immediate. She jerked her foot back. "Mr. Molina!"

He looked up, his blue eyes pinning her in place. The command in them was absolute. "You need to change your shoes."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, delivered in that low, gravelly voice that brokered no argument.

Annalise froze. The only man who had ever paid attention to her feet was Greggory, and that was only to complain that she was walking too slow, that she was embarrassing him by lagging behind. He had never offered to help. He had never cared.

A strange, complicated emotion twisted in her chest, but she crushed it immediately. Sentiment was a liability.

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a bright, dismissive smile. She tried to pull her foot away again, but his hand was firm on her ankle.

Without breaking eye contact, Angelo simply raised a hand, making a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture toward the far side of the room. Less than thirty seconds later, a staff member materialized at his elbow, proffering a small silver tray holding a sterile bandage and an antiseptic wipe. Angelo took the items with a dismissive nod, sending the waiter away. Annalise stared at the tray. He could summon medical supplies with a flick of his wrist? It was a quiet display of absolute control, so completely in character for the icy titan of industry, that her brain short-circuited for a different reason. He tore the paper open with his teeth, his movements efficient and practiced. He peeled the backing off and, with a gentleness that contradicted his hard exterior, pressed the adhesive over the raw skin of her heel.

His thumb brushed against her ankle as he smoothed the edges down. A jolt of electricity shot up her leg, making her breath hitch.

"This won't help much," he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. He stood up, his large frame once again blocking out the light. "I'll have someone bring you flats. Wait here."

He turned, ready to signal a staff member, but Annalise's hand shot out.

Her fingers grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, gripping the expensive fabric tight.

Angelo stopped. He looked down at her hand, then back up at her face. The hard lines of his face softened, just for a moment, a flicker of something warm in his eyes.

Annalise realized what she had done. She was touching him. Willingly. She snatched her hand back as if she'd been burned, smoothing her expression into one of cool indifference.

"I mean, I can't leave the party now," she said quickly, scrambling for an excuse. She couldn't change her shoes. She needed the height. She needed the power that came from looking down on her targets.

She glanced toward the champagne tower, the glass glittering like a promise. "I have something important to do."

Her voice hardened, the softness evaporating. It was the voice of a woman on a mission.

Angelo followed her gaze. He looked at the tower, then back at her. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand an explanation. The corner of his mouth curved up in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was a look of pure, unadulterated indulgence.

"As you wish," he said.

He took a step back, restoring the proper distance between them. But he didn't walk away. He stayed right by her side, a silent, immovable sentinel.

Annalise let out a slow breath. She slipped her foot back into the heel. The blister still throbbed, but the bandage provided a slight buffer. It was a tiny piece of protection in a room full of enemies.

She straightened her spine, her shoulders squaring. The pain was a reminder. It kept her focused.

She looked up. Alta was weaving her way through the crowd, a fake smile plastered on her face, heading straight for them.

The hunter's light flickered in Annalise's eyes. The trap was about to spring.

Alta walked toward them, her white dress swishing with every step. She was playing the part perfectly-the concerned, sweet younger sister. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes darting to Angelo before settling on Annalise.

"Anna, your ankle..." she started, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I saw you wince. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Alta," Annalise cut her off, her voice sharp and cold. She didn't look at her sister like a sibling; she looked at her like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Greggory appeared right behind Alta, his face flushed. He took a step forward, trying to insert himself into the conversation. "Annalise, we need to talk. This is ridiculous."

Annalise didn't even grant him a glance. She simply turned her back on him, her focus entirely on Alta.

She walked over to the massive champagne tower. The glass structure reached up toward the ceiling, a pyramid of crystal flutes. At the very top, resting on a special cradle, sat a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon. It was an antique, worth more than most cars, and it was notoriously difficult to reach.

Annalise pointed a manicured finger at the top of the tower.

"I want that one," she said.

Alta blinked, her smile faltering. "What?"

"The antique one. On the top." Annalise spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Get it for me."

The nearby guests had gone quiet, sensing the shift in the air. This wasn't a request; it was a command.

Alta's face flushed red. She looked around at the watching crowd, then back at Annalise. "Anna, that's too high. I can't reach it. Why don't you ask the staff-"

"Are you defying me?" Annalise asked, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. She crossed her arms over her chest, the rubies at her throat catching the light. She wasn't asking as a sister. She was ordering as the heiress of the Knowles empire.

Greggory stepped in, trying to smooth things over. He forced a laugh. "I can get it for you, sweetheart. It's no trouble."

Annalise finally looked at him. The disgust in her eyes was barely concealed. "I didn't ask you. I asked my sister."

She put a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the last word. The implication was clear: know your place.

Alta's lower lip trembled. She looked like she was about to cry, the perfect picture of the victim. But Annalise felt no pity. All she could see was the woman who had cut her brake lines. All she could hear was the sound of her mother's name being dragged through the mud.

"Well?" Annalise tapped her foot impatiently. "We're waiting."

The whispers started. The guests were eating it up. The Knowles heiress was putting the interloper in her place.

Alta was trapped. If she refused, she would look defiant and ungrateful in front of the city's elite. If she accepted, she would look like a servant. She shot a desperate, pleading look at Greggory.

But Greggory was too busy trying to figure out Annalise's angle. He still thought this was a game. He thought she was acting out because she was jealous, and that if he just let her get it out of her system, she would fall into his arms.

He gave Alta a subtle nod. Just do it.

Angelo stood a few paces back, his hands in his pockets. He watched the scene unfold with a faint smirk on his face. He didn't interfere. He just watched Annalise work, looking like a man admiring a masterpiece.

Alta took a shaky breath. She smoothed down her white dress and walked toward the tower, her head held high, trying to salvage some dignity.

She looked up at the top of the pyramid, her jaw clenching. It was at least eight feet off the ground.

Annalise watched her, her face a mask of indifference. She caught the eye of the head butler, Arthur, who was standing near the wall.

She gave him a look. A specific, deliberate look.

Arthur understood immediately. He disappeared through a side door, returning moments later with a small, polished mahogany stepping stool, usually reserved for reaching the highest shelves in the estate library. It was elegant, but clearly too short and precarious for the towering champagne pyramid.

He set it up right next to the champagne tower, the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor.

Alta stared at the stool, her face pale. This was it. The execution was about to begin.

Arthur stepped back, his face entirely blank. He had served the Knowles family for thirty years, and if the Missus wanted a ladder, the Missus got a ladder.

Alta stared at the polished wooden steps. The stool looked like it belonged in a private study, not in the middle of a glittering ballroom. It was a humiliation, plain and simple.

She tried one last time, her voice thin. "Anna, I really can't. I'll ruin the tower."

Annalise picked up a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving Alta's face. "Climb."

Greggory, tired of the delay and the staring crowd, leaned in close to Alta. "Just do it, get it over with," he muttered through a clenched jaw. "Don't make a scene."

He didn't want to look bad. He didn't want people to think his girlfriend couldn't follow a simple order. He certainly didn't want Annalise to think he was weak.

Alta's head snapped toward him, her eyes wide with disbelief. He was supposed to be her partner. He was supposed to save her.

But Greggory was busy adjusting his cufflinks, refusing to meet her gaze. He was already distancing himself, leaving her to twist in the wind.

Alta bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. She grabbed the sides of her short skirt, pulling them down as far as they would go, and placed a shaky foot on the first rung.

The ladder wobbled.

A low whistle came from somewhere in the crowd. It was followed by a ripple of laughter, mean and sharp.

Alta climbed another rung. The short hem of her white dress rode up her thighs, exposing more skin with every step. She tried to press her knees together, to keep some shred of modesty, but the action made her balance precarious.

She gripped the sides of the ladder, her knuckles white. "Almost there," she whispered to herself, a desperate mantra.

The crowd was no longer hiding their interest. Phones came out of pockets and clutches. The flashes were blinding, turning the scene into a grotesque photo shoot.

Annalise watched from the sidelines, her expression blank. She felt nothing. No guilt, no sympathy. Only a cold, satisfying sense of justice.

Alta reached the top rung. She stretched her arm out, her fingers brushing the neck of the antique bottle.

She shifted her weight to reach further. The movement was her undoing.

The skirt of her dress finally gave up the fight, sliding up to her waist. The bright flash of a camera illuminated her exposed skin for a split second, capturing the moment for the front page of every gossip blog in the city.

Alta gasped, her hand flying down to cover herself.

The sudden movement threw her center of gravity off. The ladder tilted violently to the left, the wooden legs screeching against the floor.

Greggory, who had moved closer to the base of the tower, saw her start to fall. His instinct took over, but it wasn't the instinct to catch her. It was the instinct to protect himself.

He stepped back, his hands coming up to shield his expensive suit from the falling liquid.

Annalise stood on the second-floor landing, leaning against the railing. When she had ascended the stairs moments ago, Eddy had silently peeled away from the main floor, using the service stairs to flank her position, melting into the shadows of the upper balcony like a phantom. She turned her head slightly, catching Eddy's eye. He was standing a few feet away, his phone already raised.

She nodded once.

Eddy's thumb hit the shutter button, the phone clicking rapidly in burst mode. He wasn't capturing the fall. He was capturing the look of sheer panic on Alta's face, the exposed skin, the humiliation.

Alta saw the lens. She saw the cold, hard lens pointed right at her.

"No! Don't shoot!" she shrieked, her voice cracking.

She let out a shriek, instinctively releasing one hand from the ladder to cover her exposed skin, but it was a fatal mistake. The sudden shift in weight made her lose her balance entirely, her body twisting as her feet left the rung.

The ladder gave way, crashing to the floor with a deafening clang.

Alta's hand flailed, her nails scraping against the edge of the champagne tower. The top tier wobbled.

A loud, sickening crack echoed through the room as the structure gave way.