“They just did.”
Another phone rang.
Then another.
The sound spread around Julian like bells tolling.
By 11:26 p.m., CrossTech’s private investment round had collapsed.
By midnight, two board members had requested an emergency call.
By 12:41 a.m., a financial journalist had posted the first story online.
By 2:15 a.m., Julian’s name was trending beside mine.
By 4:30 a.m., CrossTech stockholders in overseas pre-market forums were panicking over exposure, debt, and alleged misrepresentation.
And before sunrise, Julian Cross’s empire—so carefully polished, so loudly admired, so dependent on borrowed credibility—began falling apart.
But I did not watch it happen from the ballroom.
I left before midnight.
My father escorted me down the private elevator himself. Neither of us spoke until we reached the car.
Inside, the city lights blurred against the tinted window.
For the first time that night, my strength faltered.
I pressed a hand over my mouth.
