Steven Han was standing by the staircase, tablet in hand, double-checking the guest list and mentally ticking off arrivals. Tonight's banquet revolved around one core axis: Victor Steele's family.
Philip Steele. Frank Poole. Williard Steele. David Corbett.
These names carried weight far heavier than the glittering hall itself. Steven Han had just finished confirming their arrival times and arranging a pickup when a shadow fell across the marble steps.
He looked up.
Victor Steele was coming down the stairs.
And in his arms was Isabella Cruz.
Steven Han's pupils shrank in shock.
Victor Steele's face was ashen, darker than storm clouds before a downpour. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead, and the veins at his temples stood out sharply, as if he were forcing himself to remain upright through sheer willpower.
"Mr. President… what happened?" Steven Han asked instinctively.
Victor Steele did not slow his steps.
