Chapter 4 4

Darius moved through the ballroom with the ease of a shark in open water. He nodded at senators, ignored hedge fund managers, and kept his path straight toward the head table where the Brandt family elders held court. He didn't look at the women preening for his attention. He looked bored.

Alessandra watched him approach. She knew the script. She knew exactly what was about to happen.

She stepped into his path, but not directly. She positioned herself near a waiter who was balancing a tray of red wine.

As Darius drew parallel to her, the waiter stumbled.

It wasn't an accident. In her previous life, she hadn't seen the foot that tripped him. This time, she saw the subtle movement of Ilene's bodyguard.

The tray tipped.

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass cut through the murmur of the crowd like a gunshot. Red wine splattered across the floor, dangerously close to Darius's pristine shoes.

The music stopped. Silence descended instantly.

In the original timeline, Alessandra had gasped, dropped to her knees to help pick up the glass, and apologized profusely. That was when the accusation hit.

This time, Alessandra didn't move. She didn't gasp. She looked down at the broken glass near her toes with mild disinterest, her eyes tracking the trajectory of the spill as if calculating the cleaning cost. She deliberately stepped back, avoiding the largest shards.

"She did it!" a voice boomed.

Cornelius Brandt, Darius's uncle and the family watchdog, stood up from the main table. He pointed a shaking finger at Alessandra. "She tried to spike his drink! The waiter is in on it!"

The waiter, a young man with terror in his eyes, immediately dropped to his knees. "I'm sorry! She made me do it! She gave me the powder!"

The crowd gasped. A ripple of whispers spread through the room.

"The Abbott girl?"

"Desperate for money."

"Trying to trap him."

Darius stopped. He turned slowly to face Alessandra. His expression was dark, expecting the tears, the denial, the hysterical begging that usually accompanied guilt.

Ilene stepped out from the crowd, her face a mask of concern. "Alessandra," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "If you're in trouble... if you need money... you didn't have to do this. Don't make it worse."

The spotlight was on Alessandra. Every eye in the room was judging her, dissecting her, condemning her.

She felt the ghost of her old self trembling. But the new Alessandra-the one who had held a death sentence in a folder-straightened her spine.

She didn't look at the waiter. She didn't look at Cornelius. She looked straight at Darius.

She took a slow step forward, the rubber sole of her heel finding purchase on the clean marble.

"Darius Brandt," she said.

Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. It carried across the silent room.

Darius's eyes narrowed. He wasn't used to being addressed directly by the accused.

"Do you honestly believe," Alessandra continued, gesturing vaguely to her shoes, "that I would risk ruining a pair of vintage Manolo Blahniks just to drug you?"

She tilted her head, her expression hovering somewhere between amusement and boredom. "I mean, really. Look at them."

The absurdity of the statement hung in the air.

Darius blinked. This was not the script. He looked down at her shoes-black satin, crystal buckles-then back up to her face. There was no fear in her eyes. There was only a cold, sharp arrogance that matched his own.

"You think this is a joke?" Cornelius sputtered, his face turning purple. "We have a witness!"

Alessandra turned to the old man. She didn't raise her voice. She lowered it, forcing them to lean in.

"If I wanted to drug your nephew, Cornelius, I wouldn't use a clumsy waiter who shakes like a leaf," she said smoothly. "And I certainly wouldn't use a powder. I'd use something liquid, colorless, odorless, and metabolized within two hours. The Abbott family may be financially embarrassed, but we haven't lost our education."

The silence in the room deepened. It was heavy, stunned.

She had just insulted their intelligence while technically denying nothing, yet the sheer audacity of her competence made the accusation seem childish.

Darius's mouth twitched. The corner of his lip lifted-a fraction of an inch. It was the first genuine expression he had shown all night.

He looked at the waiter, who was still kneeling, sweating profusely. Then he looked at Alessandra, standing amidst the wreckage of the wine glasses, looking like a queen who had just burned down a village and found it tedious.

He didn't signal security. He didn't walk away.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze locking onto hers with a newfound intensity.

"Go on," Darius said softly. "I'm listening."