The microphone squealed. Music cut. Conversation died like someone had turned off the lights. "You think you can kiss her on my stage and nothing will happen?" Everlee snapped, the words slicing the last bars of applause. For a beat the room mistook it for a joke. Then cameras swung. Phones lit. The StreamWave Gala had never felt so small. Cillian Carney was smiling in that practiced way he used when he wanted people to forget everything he’d really done. He held Jasmine Avery's hand like he was introducing a new product. "Everyone, this—" he said, voice smooth, "—is Jasmine. My assistant. My right hand." Jasmine smiled like a blade. She wore silk and certainty. The crowd leaned in because they'd been trained to lean in when Carney performed. For months the tabloids had hinted. Tonight the hint became a headline. "And because she's been indispensable," Cillian went on, the camera finding him, "I want to—" He bent. Kissed Jasmine. It wasn't a quick, secret kiss. It was a show kiss. Slow, staged, sealed with a public hand on her waist. Laughter rippled—some shocked, some delighted. Champagne glasses paused mid-air. Everlee's fingers dug into the cloth of her clutch until the leather creased. Her mouth went dry. She had thought it was a joke the moment he left for the gala without her. An executive event—of course he had to keep appearances. She had expected the little white lies: "I’ll