The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

Bianca looked down at her glittering dress as if it were made of radioactive waste. "But... Clotilde said..."

Clotilde stepped back, holding up her hands. "I... I was told it was a custom piece! I had no idea!"

Preston Hayes released Clotilde's arm. He took a step away from her. Association with a counterfeit scandal was bad for business.

Richard Schmidt cleared his throat, trying to pivot. He walked toward Elza, a strained smile on his face. "Well, clearly my daughter has inherited the family eye for quality. Elza, darling—"

Barron stepped in. He wrapped his arm around Elza's waist. His hand was warm against the velvet. He pulled her flush against him.

"Back off, Richard," Barron said, his voice low and dangerous. "Five minutes ago you were apologizing for her. Don't pretend you know her now."

Richard stopped, his face darkening.

Elza looked up at Barron. His jaw was set, his eyes hard. He was defending her. It was possessive, yes. It was about his own ego, yes. But it was a shield.

Bianca burst into tears and ran from the room, her crystals jingling ridiculously.

Clotilde was cornered. She needed to regain control. She caught Victoria's eye.

Victoria nodded. She raised her voice, pitching it to carry. "It is amazing, truly. But one does wonder... how does a girl with no access to her trust fund afford a priceless prototype? I've heard rumors... about certain private clubs she visits."

The implication hung in the air. Escort.

The crowd gasped. The sympathy shifted back. Of course. She sold her body for the dress.

Barron went rigid. His grip on Elza's waist tightened to the point of pain. "What did you say?"

He was going to kill Victoria. He was going to tear this whole gala down.

Elza placed her hand over his on her waist. Stop.

She stepped out of his embrace. She walked over to the table where Victoria had set her drink.

Elza picked up a full glass of champagne.

She turned to Victoria. She didn't throw it. That would be trashy.

She simply turned her wrist and poured the champagne onto the floor, directly onto Victoria's satin shoes.

It was a libation. A drink for the dead.

She looked at Victoria with eyes that said: You are dead to me.

Then, she turned her back. She walked toward the stage where the auctioneer was setting up.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, trying to break the tension. "We are moving to the main event. The North Lot of the Schmidt Estate."

Elza stood at the front. She reached out and took a paddle. Number 707.

She raised it.

"We have an opening bid?" the auctioneer asked. "Shall we start at five million?"

Preston Hayes, having recovered his composure, raised his paddle. He needed this win. "Six million."

He smirked at Barron. "Building a resort, Barron. Going to block your penthouse view."

Elza raised her paddle.

"Seven million," the auctioneer called.

A ripple of shock went through the room.

Barron leaned in, hissing in her ear. "What are you doing? You don't have seven million dollars."

Elza ignored him. She stared straight ahead at Preston.

"Eight million," Preston countered, laughing. "Is she bidding with Monopoly money, Barron? Or are you footing the bill for her little hobby?"

Clotilde laughed. "Let her bid. When the check bounces, she'll go to jail."

Elza raised her paddle again.

"Nine million."

Preston looked annoyed now. The valuation was only eight. "Ten million!" he shouted. "And that's my final offer."

Elza lowered her paddle. She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, her movements small and deliberate.

She opened the news app. She tapped a pre-saved command.

On the giant screen behind the auctioneer, the scrolling financial ticker suddenly flashed red.

BREAKING NEWS: DRAKE HOLDINGS ACQUIRES EXCLUSIVE PATENTS FOR OMNI-TECH. HAYES CORP STOCK PLUMMETS 15% IN AFTER-MARKET TRADING.

Preston's phone began to vibrate. Then it rang. Then his assistant's phone rang.

He looked at the screen. His face went white. Omni-Tech was the centerpiece of his leverage for the North Lot deal. Without those patents, his collateral was worthless. His credit line just evaporated.

Barron stared at the screen. He looked at Elza.

That acquisition was top secret. It wasn't supposed to be announced until Monday. How did she know? And how did she time the release to the exact second?

Preston was shouting into his phone. "What do you mean the financing is pulled? Fix it!"

"Do we have ten million?" the auctioneer asked. "Ten million going once..."

Preston slammed his phone down. He couldn't pay. He was frozen.

Elza raised her paddle one last time.

She held up one finger.

"Ten million... and one dollar?" the auctioneer asked, confused. "I have ten million and one dollar."

It was the ultimate insult.

Preston kicked a chair over. He stormed out, his empire crumbling in real-time.

"Sold!" the gavel banged. "To Mrs. Elza Drake."

Elza walked up to the stage. She took the checkbook from her bag. She wrote the check. She signed it E. Stark .

She took the deed. She didn't walk back to Barron. She walked to the head table, where Constance Schmidt, the matriarch of the family, sat in her wheelchair.

Barron watched her. His mind was racing. The timing. The money. The silence.

She's the leak, he thought. She has to be.