"The bathwater was hot enough to burn Maxwell Rourke's skin, yet the paralyzed crime boss didn't flinch—until I turned on the cold tap and his foot jerked away, exposing a terrifying secret."

Downstairs, the mansion hummed with chaotic activity. Caterers carried silver trays of oysters and champagne, florists arranged white lilies along the grand marble staircase, and dozens of armed guards in black tuxedos established security perimeters around the estate.

At 4:00 PM, Miss Delaney entered the third-floor suite holding a small velvet box alongside the morning syringe tray.

Her face was tight, her eyes darting nervously toward the bathroom door where Maxwell sat in his wheelchair—his slouched, paralyzed act fully restored for the household staff.

"Martha," Miss Delaney whispered, pulling me into the pantry corridor. "Mr. Julien instructed that today's dose be doubled."

My blood went cold. "Doubled?"

"He wants your patient resting comfortably through the evening festivities," Miss Delaney said, her hands shaking slightly as she handed me two pre-filled syringes. "He doesn't want any... emotional outbursts from the third floor while the Commission is downstairs."

He isn't trying to make him rest, I realized with sickening clarity. A double dose of anemone toxin will induce cardiac arrest within thirty minutes.

Julien wasn't waiting for the heart attack anymore. He was executing his brother tonight, before the gala began, so he could announce Maxwell’s tragic passing to the assembled bosses as a done deal.

"I'll take care of it, Miss Delaney," I forced out, keeping my voice deadpan and calm.

As soon as she closed the suite door, I rushed into the study.

Maxwell was already out of his wheelchair, standing near the window, dressed in a bespoke black tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders like custom armor. He looked breathtaking, formidable, and utterly terrifying—the sovereign king of Providence preparing for war.

"He doubled the dose, Maxwell," I rasped out, holding up the two filled syringes. "He's planning to kill you before the guests arrive."

Maxwell looked at the clear liquid in the glass tubes, a cold, ruthless smirk spreading across his face.

"Then we don't have much time," Maxwell said, turning to face me. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, sleek satellite phone alongside a pair of heavy, diamond-encrusted cufflinks. "Take this phone, Martha. At precisely 8:30 PM, when Julien steps up to the microphone in the ballroom, press three and hit send. It will broadcast the ledger's digital file directly to the Commission's private server."

"And where will you be?" I asked, my voice trembling as I took the phone.

"I'll be standing behind my brother," Maxwell whispered, leaning down until his dark gray eyes were inches from mine. "Protecting the only woman in this house who risked her life to save mine."

Before I could answer, heavy, frantic footsteps echoed down the third-floor corridor outside.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The study door was slammed outward with a deafening crash.

Vance—Julien’s chief security officer—stepped into the room holding a suppressed automatic pistol, flanked by three armed guards.

Vance’s eyes widened into vast, horror-stricken circles as he saw Maxwell Rourke standing fully upright in his tuxedo, holding a leather folder, looking down at him with dark, predatory calm.

"He's walking..." Vance gasped into his radio, his finger tightening over the trigger. "Julien! He's walking! The paralysis was a—"

THWIP!

Before Vance could finish his sentence, Maxwell moved with terrifying, blinding speed. He closed the distance between them in a fraction of a second, grabbed Vance's wrist, snapped it backward with a brutal CRACK, and drove a heavy fist directly into the guard's throat.

Vance collapsed onto the hardwood floor, gasping for air, while Maxwell disarmed the remaining two guards with lethal, surgical precision, dropping them like lead weights onto the rug.