Without missing a beat, my mom reached across the head table and picked up a massive, freshly poured glass of red wine—a deep, dark Cabernet.

It was my mother.

"Clara," Eleanor said without greeting, her voice taut with rare urgency. "Where are you?"

"I’m on the terrace with Julian. What happened?"

"Evelyn Davenport just held a press conference outside the county courthouse," Eleanor said, the background noise of television news anchors humming through the speaker. "Her brother—Senator Marcus Vance-Davenport—just flew in from Washington. They’re claiming the 1914 deed you uncovered is an intentional forgery planted by your grandfather during the Great Depression to ruin the Davenport patriarch."

I gripped the phone tightly. "That’s absurd! The state forensic lab authenticated the paper and the ink last month!"

"It doesn't matter, Clara," Eleanor warned. "Marcus has federal pull. He’s filed an emergency injunction with the appellate court to seize St. Claire Manor tomorrow night—the exact night of the unveiling gala. He wants the federal marshals to lock the gates while three hundred international dignitaries and press outlets are standing on the lawn."

I lowered the phone, feeling the blood drain from my face.

Julian took the phone from my hand, listened for five seconds, and replied in a cold, measured tone: "Thank you, Eleanor. Have Victoria meet us in my study in thirty minutes."

He hung up and turned to me. "Marcus Davenport is a ruthless political animal. He doesn't care about the truth; he only cares about creating a public spectacle large enough to force a behind-the-scenes settlement to save his family’s political donor base."

"He’s going to humiliate us on the biggest night of our careers," I said, my voice shaking with fury. "All those ambassadors, the governors, the design icons... if federal marshals put yellow tape on those gates, the project is dead."

Julian stepped closer, taking both of my hands into his. His grip was unyielding, warm, and rock-solid.

"Listen to me, Clara," Julian said, his eyes burning with an intense, fiery conviction. "No one locks my gates. And no one humiliates you ever again. Let Senator Davenport bring his cameras. Let Evelyn wear her best diamonds. Tomorrow night, we aren't just hosting a gala."

"What are we doing?" I asked, breathless.