“The prompter is ready, Lucian. The cameras from every major financial network in the hemisphere are live. All you have to do is read the date, smile at the woman beside you, and we can finally put this ‘restoration’ narrative to bed.”

Marcus stood in the wings of the Grand Ballroom at the Pierre, his voice a low, clinical hum against the roar of a thousand socialites. The air was a thick, suffocating blend of expensive lilies, aged bourbon, and the electric tension of a kingdom waiting for its crowning moment.

Lucian Aldridge didn’t look at his assistant. He stood in the shadows, his tuxedo jacket buttoned tight, his eyes—those...