After the auction concludes, attendees mingle while the winners collect their items. I make my way to the display area, Ethan at my side, to claim my prize.

As I'm signing the paperwork, a familiar voice speaks from behind me.


"Mrs. Knight. Congratulations on your win."

I turn to find Cassandra standing there, her smile brittle, Diana beside her with a calculating expression.

"Thank you," I reply coolly. "It's a beautiful piece."


"Indeed," Cassandra agrees. "Though I must say, I'm surprised by your taste. Fabergé eggs are rather... old-fashioned, don't you think? More suited to someone of my mother's generation."

"Quality and craftsmanship never go out of style," I counter. "Unlike some trends that fade quickly."


Diana's eyes narrow at the subtle dig. "My daughter has an excellent eye for valuable pieces," she says. "She was quite determined to add this one to our collection."

"As was I," I reply with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Fortunately, determination backed by resources usually prevails."

It's a deliberate reminder of the wealth and power I now command as Ethan Knight's wife—wealth and power that equals or exceeds their own.

"Yes, well," Cassandra says, her tone sharpening. "One must wonder about the authenticity of such pieces. There are so many excellent replicas on the market these days."

"Are you suggesting the auction committee would accept a fake?" Ethan asks, his voice dangerously soft.

Cassandra backpedals slightly. "Not at all. I merely meant that even experts can be fooled sometimes. Perhaps we should have it authenticated, just to be certain? I'd hate for your wife to have overpaid for something less than genuine."

The implication is clear—she's questioning not just the egg's authenticity but mine as well. How much does she suspect? Has something about me triggered her memory?

"I'm quite confident in my purchase," I reply smoothly. "But if you're so concerned, why don't we have it examined right now? I believe there's a jewelry appraiser present for the auction."

Cassandra hesitates, caught in her own trap. "I... that won't be necessary."

"I insist," I press, sensing an opportunity to humiliate her publicly. "In fact, I understand you donated a Fabergé egg of your own to last year's auction. Perhaps we could compare the two? I'm sure the committee keeps records."

Diana places a restraining hand on Cassandra's arm. "That's hardly necessary. We were simply making conversation."

"No, Mother," Cassandra interrupts, her pride overriding her caution. "Mrs. Knight wants an authentication. Let's provide one." She turns to a nearby auction official. "Could you please call over the appraiser? We'd like to verify the Fabergé egg's authenticity."

The official looks uncomfortable but complies, returning moments later with an elderly gentleman in spectacles. "This is Dr. Petrov," he introduces. "Our expert on Russian decorative arts."

Dr. Petrov examines the egg carefully, using a loupe to study the hallmarks and craftsmanship. "This is indeed authentic," he confirms after several minutes. "A fine example from the Moscow workshop, circa 1896."

"There, you see?" I say to Cassandra. "Genuine, as expected."

But Cassandra isn't ready to concede. "And what about last year's egg? The one my family donated? I'd like to compare the quality."

Dr. Petrov looks confused. "Last year's egg? I don't recall—"

"The red and gold one," Cassandra insists. "With the imperial crest."

Recognition dawns on the appraiser's face. "Ah, that piece. I'm afraid that was determined to be a modern reproduction, Ms. Morgan. Quite a good one, but definitely not period work. I thought the auction committee informed your family."

Cassandra's face drains of color. "That's impossible. We purchased it from a reputable dealer in St. Petersburg."

"Who apparently sold you a very expensive fake," I observe, unable to resist twisting the knife. "How unfortunate."

By now, a small crowd has gathered, drawn by the drama unfolding. Whispers circulate as New York's elite witness Cassandra Morgan's humiliation.

"This is absurd," Diana interjects, attempting damage control. "There must be some mistake."

"There's no mistake, Mrs. Morgan," Dr. Petrov says firmly. "The piece your family donated was a reproduction, worth perhaps five thousand dollars, not the hundred thousand it was valued at for the auction."

Cassandra's embarrassment transforms into rage. Before anyone can stop her, she lunges forward and grabs my Fabergé egg from the display case.

"If mine was fake, then so is this!" she declares, raising the priceless artifact above her head.

"Cassandra, don't!" Diana cries, but it's too late.

With deliberate malice, Cassandra smashes the egg against the marble floor, where it shatters into dozens of glittering fragments.

Gasps of horror echo through the ballroom. Vivienne Knight, who has joined the gathering crowd, steps forward, her expression thunderous.

"Ms. Morgan," she says, her voice cutting through the shocked silence. "You have just destroyed a half-million-dollar artifact and disrupted a charity event benefiting sick children. I suggest you leave immediately before I have security escort you out."

Cassandra stands amid the wreckage, her face flushed with belated realization of what she's done. "I... I didn't mean to—"

"You will, of course, reimburse the full amount," Vivienne continues implacably. "Five hundred thousand dollars, payable to the children's hospital by the end of the week."

"That's outrageous!" Diana protests. "It was clearly an accident."

"Was it?" Ethan challenges, his arm protectively around my shoulders. "Because it looked very deliberate from where I'm standing."

My father appears, drawn by the commotion. "What's happening here?" he demands, taking in the shattered egg and his daughter's stricken face.

"Your daughter has just destroyed a priceless artifact out of spite," Vivienne informs him coldly. "And now she—or you—will make restitution."

Charles Morgan's face darkens with anger and embarrassment. "Cassandra, is this true?"

"She provoked me!" Cassandra insists, pointing at me. "She deliberately outbid me, then questioned the authenticity of our family's donations!"

"That's not what happened," I say calmly, playing the role of reasonable victim perfectly. "I simply won the auction fairly. The authentication was your idea, not mine."

Several onlookers nod in confirmation, having witnessed the entire exchange.

My father turns to Diana. "Take her home," he orders tersely. "I'll deal with this."

As Diana leads a protesting Cassandra away, Charles turns to me with a stiff bow. "Mrs. Knight, I apologize for my daughter's behavior. I will, of course, cover the full amount of the damage."

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," I reply graciously. "I appreciate your integrity in this matter."

He studies me for a moment, a flicker of something—recognition? confusion?—crossing his face before he nods and follows his wife and daughter.

As the crowd disperses and staff begin cleaning up the broken egg, Ethan leads me to a quiet corner of the ballroom.

"Are you alright?" he asks, genuine concern in his eyes. "That was quite a scene."

"I'm fine," I assure him, though my heart is racing with the thrill of victory. "Just disappointed about the egg."

"We can find another," Ethan says dismissively. "What interests me more is Cassandra Morgan's extreme reaction to you. This goes beyond simple social rivalry."

I tense slightly. Has he noticed too much? Connected dots I don't want connected yet?

"Some women are naturally competitive," I suggest with a shrug. "And she clearly has impulse control issues."

Ethan doesn't look convinced. "There's something more here. The way she looks at you... it's almost as if she sees you as a threat specifically."

"Perhaps she does," I admit carefully. "Ascendant Group is poised to take over a significant portion of her family's company. That would make anyone hostile."

"Perhaps," Ethan concedes, though his expression remains thoughtful. "Still, I want you to be careful around her. Cassandra Morgan has a reputation for vindictiveness when she feels slighted."

Don't I know it, I think grimly. "I can handle Cassandra Morgan," I say aloud. "But I appreciate your concern."

Vivienne joins us, her composure restored after the disruption. "Well, that was certainly the most dramatic charity auction in recent memory," she observes dryly. "Are you alright, Olivia? That woman's behavior was inexcusable."

"I'm fine," I repeat. "Though I'm sorry about the egg. And the scene."

"Don't be," Vivienne says firmly. "The hospital still gets its donation—Charles Morgan wouldn't dare renege with so many witnesses—and everyone saw exactly what kind of person Cassandra Morgan is. If anything, you've emerged from this looking even more poised and dignified by comparison."

She's right, of course. Tonight was a victory on multiple fronts—I humiliated Cassandra publicly, forced my father to acknowledge and apologize for her behavior, and positioned myself as the gracious, wronged party in the eyes of New York society.

One small battle in my larger war, but a satisfying one nonetheless.

As we prepare to leave the gala, my phone buzzes with a text from Marcus: "Diana and Cassandra just left in separate cars. Diana headed to Pierce residence. Surveillance in place."

Good. Let them scramble, let them plot. Whatever they're planning, I'll be ready.

Ethan helps me with my wrap, his hands lingering on my shoulders. "Ready to go home?" he asks, his voice low near my ear.

Home. The word still feels strange, applied to the penthouse we share. But tonight, after the public drama and tension, the thought of returning to our private space—to check on Leo, to remove these uncomfortable shoes, to let down my guard just slightly—is unexpectedly appealing.

"Yes," I reply, leaning into his touch just slightly. "Let's go home."

As we leave the ballroom, I catch sight of my reflection in a gilded mirror—Vivienne's diamond necklace gleaming at my throat, Ethan's hand at the small of my back, my expression composed and confident.

Olivia Knight, society darling, devoted wife, wronged party in tonight's drama.

The perfect disguise for a woman bent on revenge.