The press conference was held in the ballroom of The Plaza, a place of gilded ceilings and hushed conversations. Julian had chosen the venue for maximum dramatic effect.

Edlyn sat in the back row. Julian stood at a podium, looking somber and heartbroken. He was wearing a dark suit, his face pale. He looked like a man in mourning.

"Thank you all for coming," he began, his voice trembling perfectly. "I am here today to address the vicious and unfounded rumors surrounding my relationship with Edlyn Harding."

Heads turned. People were whispering, pointing at Edlyn.

"The woman I loved, the woman I planned to spend my life with, has fallen under the influence of a dangerous man," Julian continued, his voice rising with theatrical passion. "Camden Benjamin preys on vulnerable women. He saw that Edlyn was fragile, grieving, and he used his immense wealth to poison her mind against me."

He was good. He was painting himself as the victim, Camden as the predator, and Edlyn as the helpless pawn.

"He has bought her," Julian said, his voice cracking. "He bought her with jewels and dresses, promising her a world she could never have. And in her confusion, she left me."

He paused, letting the silence hang in the air. Then he delivered the killing blow.

"But I don't believe she is a gold digger. I believe she is unwell. Her time with me was... difficult. She suffers from delusions. She needs help, not a predator's gilded cage."

Through her earpiece, Weaver's voice was like ice. "Slander and defamation. He's just handed us the lawsuit on a silver platter. Stay put, Ms. Harding. The show is about to begin."

A reporter stood up. "Mr. Thorne, do you have any proof of these claims? Or of Ms. Harding's instability?"

Julian's smug smile was back. "As a matter of fact, I do."

He gestured to the large screen behind him. "I have a photo that shows Ms. Harding in a compromising position, selling herself at a private club just days before she met Mr. Benjamin..."

The screen flickered on. But it wasn't a grainy photo of Edlyn.

It was a high-definition video.

The video showed Julian on the deck of the Harding family yacht. He was talking to Chloe. But there was audio, crystal clear.

"She's such a bore, Chloe. A nun," Julian's voice echoed through the silent ballroom. "Just let me secure the trust fund vote, then we can dump her in a facility. The prenup is airtight. We take the gallery, we take the money, she gets nothing."

A collective gasp swept through the room.

Julian stared at the screen, his face turning the color of ash. "That's... that's not..."

The video was date-stamped. October 14th. The day of Edlyn's grandmother's funeral.

"Turn it off!" Chloe, who was standing in the wings, screamed.

But the video didn't stop. It cut to another clip. A security camera feed from outside Julian's apartment. It showed him kicking a stray dog that had gotten too close.

The room erupted. Reporters were shouting questions, cameras flashing.

Julian stumbled back from the podium, his face a mask of pure panic. He looked out at the crowd, his eyes searching, and they found Edlyn.

She stood up.

She didn't have to say a word.

He saw her, and in that moment, he knew. He knew that the quiet, broken girl he had controlled for three years was gone. He wasn't facing a rabbit anymore.

He was facing a queen, backed by the power of a king.

Julian tried to run. He scrambled off the stage, pushing past his own PR team, but the reporters swarmed him like piranhas.

"Mr. Thorne, is it true you planned to have Ms. Harding institutionalized?"

"What about the animal cruelty charges?"

"Was the entire engagement a fraud?"

He shoved a camera out of his way and bolted for a side exit, a coward fleeing the fire he had started.

Edlyn stood there. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might explode. Through the earpiece, Weaver's voice was like ice. "Leave now, Ms. Harding. The east exit. A car is waiting."

She turned and walked away from the chaos. No one tried to stop her. They were too busy devouring Julian.

She walked through the heavy doors onto the street. The cool autumn air hit her.

She was alone.

The black town car was waiting at the curb, just as Weaver had said. She slid into the back seat.

Camden was there. He wasn't looking at his phone this time. He was looking at her. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were intense.

"Is it done?" he asked.

"It's done," she whispered.

The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the media circus behind. They drove in silence for several blocks. The adrenaline began to fade, leaving her feeling hollowed out and shaking.

He must have seen her trembling. He reached over and took the tablet from her lap, where she had been clutching it with white knuckles.

"You did not need to be there," he said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

"Yes, I did," she said, finding her voice. "I needed to see it."

He looked at her, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver. "Take us to the gallery."

Edlyn looked at him, confused. "The gallery is closed."

"Not for you," he said. "Not anymore."

The car pulled up in front of the Harding Gallery. The lights were off, the doors locked. Camden made a call. A minute later, a security guard hurried out and unlocked the heavy oak doors.

They walked inside. The air smelled of oil paint, turpentine, and memories. Her parents' portraits hung in the main hall, their smiling faces looking down at her.

Edlyn stopped in front of her mother's portrait. She looked so alive, her eyes full of the same fire she sometimes felt in herself.

"Your uncle and aunt have signed the transfer documents," Camden said, his voice softer than she had ever heard it. "It's yours now. All of it."

Tears welled in her eyes. She had fought so hard, for so long, in silence. And now, it was over.

A single tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. Before she could wipe it away, a hand reached out. Camden's thumb brushed against her skin, catching the tear. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

The gesture was so unexpected, so out of character, it made her breath hitch.

He pulled his hand back quickly, as if he'd been burned. He cleared his throat and stepped away, the distance between them restored.

"Sunday," he said, his voice back to its usual cool monotone. "Dinner at my family's estate. Be ready."