The air inside the Grand Ballroom of the Shard had always been thin—filtered into a state of expensive purity meant for billionaires, politicians, and people who mistook wealth for divinity.
Now, it felt like the oxygen had been ripped out entirely.
A thousand guests stood frozen beneath the crystal chandeliers, trapped in a tableau of collective disbelief. Titans of finance. Political dynasties. Celebrity philanthropists. The architects of Manhattan's power structure.
Every one of them was staring upward.
The massive wraparound LED screens that usually displayed Sterling Global's stock surges and market dominance were no longer broadcasting polished corporate propaganda.
They were broadcasting truth.
Raw.
Ugly.
Unedited.
On the screens, a cramped kitchen in Astoria flickered beneath yellow light.
And standing at the center of it—
magnified thirty feet high—
was Julian Vance.
Every predatory twitch of his lips.
Every calculated tilt of his head.
