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.

"Senator Davenport," Julian spoke, his voice quiet yet carrying an undeniable authority that instantly commanded the room. "You always were better at staging press stunts than reading legal briefs."

"Save it for the judge, Cross!" the Senator snapped, waving the injunction document in the air. "The marshals are clearing the hall!"

"The marshals aren't clearing anything, Marcus," Eleanor Vance said, stepping down the final tier of the marble staircase to stand beside me. She leveled a piercing stare at Evelyn Davenport. "Because before you filed that frivolous motion at three o'clock this afternoon, you failed to check the public records of the United States Department of the Interior."

Senator Davenport’s eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Julian stepped up to the podium set up for the night’s speeches and tapped the microphone. The room fell into absolute, pin-drop silence.

"Three days ago," Julian announced calmly, looking directly into the television lenses, "the St. Claire Manor estate was officially accepted into the National Trust for Historic Preservation as a protected Federal Monument of American Heritage."

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Several legal experts in the room immediately turned to look at the Senator with stunned disbelief.

Julian’s voice hardened into steel. "Under Federal Code title fifty-four, state appellate courts hold zero jurisdiction over National Monuments. But more importantly... the grant was approved because of an extraordinary historical deed that Clara Vance uncovered—a deed that doesn't just date back to 1914."

Julian opened the silver folder Eleanor handed him and pulled out an ancient, yellowed vellum scroll encased in UV-protective acrylic.

"In 1792," Julian continued, his gaze locking onto Evelyn Davenport’s horrified face, "the northern ridge was gifted by the Continental Congress to Captain Thomas Vance—Clara Vance’s direct five-times-great-grandfather. Josiah Davenport never forged a deed against the public commons. Josiah Davenport stole the land directly from Clara’s family through an illegal probate seizure after Captain Vance died at sea."

The ballroom exploded into murmurs of shock.

"The federal conservancy has officially transferred the underlying land patent into a perpetual trust," Julian said, his eyes softening as he turned to look at me, a proud, triumphant smile gracing his face. "Which means, Senator, you and your sister are not standing on Davenport soil. You are standing on Clara Vance’s ancestral land. And you are officially trespassing."

Evelyn’s face turned gray. She grabbed her brother’s arm, her fingers sinking into his suit coat. "Marcus... Marcus, do something! This can't be real!"

"Marshals," Julian said quietly to the four officers who had accompanied the Senator. "Please escort these two trespassers off the premises before I file federal civil harassment and election-tampering charges against the Senator’s campaign committee."

The lead marshal looked at the federal seal on Julian’s documents, folded his own injunction in half, and turned to the Senator. "Senator... we need to leave. Now."

The press cameras spun around, capturing every humiliating second as Evelyn Davenport was firmly guided toward the exit doors by federal marshals, shielding her face from the flashing lights while the crowd erupted into thunderous, spontaneous applause.

As the heavy oak doors shut behind the disgraced Davenports, Julian walked over to me.

The applause continued around us, but all I could hear was the steady beat of my own heart. Julian looked down at me, his eyes dark with an admiration and passion that was no longer hidden.

"You took back what was yours, Clara," he murmured, his hand gently finding mine in the center of the grand ballroom.

"We took it back," I whispered, smiling up at him.

Julian stepped closer, his fingers tightening gently around mine, about to speak—when suddenly, a young courier in a wet raincoat slipped through the side gallery door, frantically waving a red wax-sealed courier envelope stamped with the crest of the British High Consulate.

"Mr. Cross! Miss Vance!" the courier called out breathlessly, catching the attention of the front row of guests. "An emergency courier from London! It’s regarding the St. Claire shipping trust... there’s an undiscovered co-heir named in the 1888 will, and they’ve just landed at JFK Airport with an international freezing order!"