The Moon Manor ballroom was a sea of silk and hypocrisy.

Harl Moon stood by the champagne tower, sweating. The investors were asking questions. Where was the groom? Where was the bride?

On the giant screen, Jenna was finishing her speech. "...we pray for Kaela's safety."

The crowd murmured.

"I heard she was turning tricks in Detroit," a woman whispered.

"Sad. Bad blood," another replied.

Charlee Carr, a socialite in a dress that cost more than a car, laughed loudly. "She probably pawned the engagement ring for a fix. She's not coming."

Candace Moon dabbed her dry eyes. "We tried so hard to save her."

Suddenly, the crystal chandelier above them began to tremble.

A low thrumming sound vibrated through the floorboards. It grew louder. A rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup that drowned out the string quartet.

"Earthquake?" someone shouted.

The French doors rattled in their frames.

Outside, on the manicured Great Lawn, a storm descended.

A massive Sikorsky S-76 helicopter, painted matte black with a gold 'K' on the tail, flared for a landing. The rotor wash tore through the garden, ripping up flower beds and sending patio umbrellas cartwheeling across the grass.

The guests rushed to the windows.

"Is that... is that a Kaufman bird?" Harl asked, his face draining of color.

The helicopter touched down. The side door slid open.

Four security guards in tactical suits jumped out, unrolling a red carpet across the grass.

Then, a leg emerged. A stiletto heel.

Kaela stepped out.

She wasn't wearing flannel. She was wearing a backless, midnight-blue gown that clung to her like liquid shadow. It was a dress Barron had kept on the jet for "emergencies." Her hair was slicked back, her makeup sharp and severe. She was the spitting image of her sister, Jenna, but with an edge of danger Jenna could only dream of.

She turned back to the cabin and extended a hand.

Two guards lifted Barron out and placed him in his wheelchair. He looked frail, his head listing to the side, a tuxedo hanging loosely on his frame.

Kaela gripped the handles of the chair. She didn't look like a victim. She looked like a queen returning to execute her subjects.

She pushed the chair toward the ballroom doors.

Inside, Candace dropped her champagne flute. It shattered.

Jenna's mouth hung open on the giant screen behind her.

The bride had arrived. Or so they thought.

The double doors blew open.

Kaela pushed Barron into the center of the room. The silence was absolute. She held her chin high, a perfect imitation of Jenna's arrogant posture.

She stopped. She scanned the crowd, her gaze landing on Candace on the balcony.

"Sorry I'm late," Kaela said, her voice a flawless mimicry of Jenna's haughty tone. "There was some trouble on the road. It's been handled."

Candace gripped the railing. She looked confused, then relieved.

Charlee Carr, drunk on wine and entitlement, stepped forward. She couldn't stand the attention Kaela was getting.

"Look at you, Kaela," Charlee sneered, her eyes raking over the expensive silk with poorly concealed envy. "Finally decided to show? And you brought the vegetable?"

She feigned a stumble, tipping her glass of red wine toward Kaela's chest.

Kaela didn't flinch. She didn't move.

But the wheelchair did.

The chair's electric motor whirred, and it surged forward a few inches-a sudden, violent-looking spasm. The wine splashed across Barron's legs, soaking his trousers.

The room gasped. You didn't touch a Kaufman. Even a broken one.

"Oops," Charlee giggled. "My bad."

Barron let out a low, guttural growl. His head twitched violently.

Kaela knelt instantly. She pulled out a silk handkerchief and dabbed at Barron's leg. "It's okay," she soothed, her hand resting firmly on his knee.

She stood up and turned to Charlee. Her eyes were ice.

"You just ruined a bespoke Brioni suit," Kaela said. "Can you afford to replace it?"

"Please," Charlee scoffed. "My father is Dominic Carr."

Kaela stepped closer, invading Charlee's space. She lowered her voice so only Charlee could hear.

"Your father? The one who used a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands to illegally short his own company's stock last quarter?"

Charlee froze. That information wasn't public. It wasn't even rumored. Only three people in the world were supposed to know.

"The SEC filing is under the name 'Nightingale Holdings,'" Kaela whispered. "I'd go home and start deleting emails if I were you."

Charlee's face went grey. She dropped her glass and ran for the exit.

"Kaela! What the hell are you doing?" Harl marched over, his face flushed with fury. "Apologize to her! And wipe Mr. Kaufman's face!"

"Apologize?" Kaela laughed.

She pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen. A small, almost imperceptible gesture, but it sent a command.

The giant projector behind them flickered. Jenna's face vanished.

Audio filled the room.

"It was Jenna... she wanted a video... wanted her broken..."

Miller's sobbing confession echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

"Candace said... don't mark the face..."

The crowd erupted in whispers. Jenna screamed from backstage and ran. Candace looked like she was going to faint.

Kaela cut the audio. She looked at Harl, her expression one of cold fury, the perfect mask of a betrayed older sister.

"It seems my own family tried to have me assaulted," she said, her voice shaking with practiced rage. "I've sent a copy of this to the Kaufman legal team. Consider this your warning."

Harl's face turned purple. He raised his hand to slap her. "You ungrateful bitch!"

His hand swung down.

It never connected.

The wheelchair jolted forward again, its front wheel catching Harl's ankle. He stumbled, his slap turning into a clumsy flail that missed her by a foot. At the same time, Graves materialized between them.

"Mr. Moon, step back," Graves said, his voice a low threat. "You are agitating the client."

Harl cradled his twisted ankle, staring at Barron in horror.

The "invalid's" head was still tilted, his mouth slack, but his eyes were fixed on Harl. They were vacant, yet held a chilling, animalistic focus that promised violence.