Another pause.
“Almost two million dollars.”
The room spun.
Two million.
Not hidden spending.
Not gifts.
Not an affair.
Fraud.
The Whitestone Medical Foundation Gala began at seven.
By six-thirty, Dallas society filled the ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers reflected across polished marble floors.
Waiters circulated with champagne.
Politicians posed for photographers.
Hospital executives greeted donors.
The room glittered with power.
And standing in the center of it all was Ethan.
Perfect.
Confident.
Admired.
Exactly where he wanted to be.
I arrived fifteen minutes later.
The room noticed immediately.
Not because I
