The champagne hit my face before I even had time to blink.

The private VIP salon on the third floor of the Grand Regent Hotel was an oasis of quiet luxury, far removed from the hysterical weeping echoing up from the grand ballroom below.

Rich mahogany paneling, leather armchairs, and a roaring fire in the marble hearth gave the room an intimate, solid feel. A tray of fresh towels, warm water, and a pristine spare blazer—identical to the one I had ruined—sat waiting on a side table.

I stripped off the champagne-soaked jacket, tossing it into a wicker hamper, and slipped my arms into the dry replacement blazer.

My father stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the rain-slicked lights of Fifth Avenue, his hands clasped behind his back in parade rest.

"You handled yourself well down there, Maya," my father said without turning around. "Though I taught you to draw a line, not let them throw drinks at you."

"It's called gathering evidence, Dad," I smiled, running a brush through my dark hair to smooth out the stray strands. "If I had retaliated too early, I wouldn't have gotten to watch her whole social life implode in slow motion."

My father let out a low, gravelly chuckle—a sound reserved exclusively for me and my mother. He turned around, his stern features relaxing into the proud, weathered smile of a retired four-star commander who knew his daughter had inherited every ounce of his tactical discipline.

"The federal marshals are already securing the Sterling family’s primary accounts," my father said, walking over to pour two fingers of aged bourbon into a heavy crystal glass. He didn't offer me a drink; he knew I preferred black tea. "Chairman Sterling thought he could hide thirty million dollars in municipal infrastructure funds through dummy corporations in Delaware. He forgot that my logistics network audits every freight line from here to the Canadian border."

"Did you bring the port expansion dossiers?" I asked, stepping up to the mahogany desk where a thick leather binder rested beside a gold fountain pen.

"In my briefcase," my father replied, taking a sip of his bourbon. "And before you ask—yes, the board of the Carlyle Foundation approved your new regional outreach program unanimously this afternoon. No delays. No municipal red tape."

I opened the leather binder, running my fingers over the crisp, official documents. For five years, I had built my career independently, refusing to use my father’s military rank or federal connections to fast-track my restaurants and community projects. I wanted my success to be entirely my own.

Tonight, however, having my father step in to remind a toxic bully of the food chain had been an undeniably satisfying bonus.

"How did you even know I was at the gala?" I asked, looking up at him. "I thought you were in Washington reviewing the Department of Transportation logistics reports."

My father's eyes twinkled with a dry, humorous glint. "Maya, honey, I command the federal logistics grid. You don't think I keep track of my only daughter's GPS coordinates when she attends high-profile charity events hosted by people like Arthur Sterling?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "You're incorrigible, Dad."

Before he could reply, a soft knock sounded at the heavy oak door.

"Enter," my father commanded, his voice snapping back into its authoritative military cadence.

The door opened, and Chloe slipped into the room, looking wide-eyed and breathless, still clutching her evening clutch like a shield.

"Maya... Mr. General—I mean, General Vance," Chloe stammered, bobbing a clumsy, nervous half-curtsey before catching herself and turning beet red. "I am so sorry to interrupt, but... downstairs... the entire lobby is talking about nothing else."

"Let them talk, Chloe," I said gently, pouring her a cup of chamomile tea from the silver service. "Calm down. Have a seat. The wolves have already been fed."

Chloe collapsed into a leather armchair, taking the tea with trembling fingers. "Fed? Maya, you just destroyed a sitting municipal board chairman and socially liquidated one of the most vicious snobs in Manhattan in under ten minutes! My phone has been buzzing off the hook. The junior partners at my firm are texting me asking if we’re hiring!"

My father walked over, placing a heavy, reassuring hand on Chloe’s shoulder. "Young lady, in this city, power doesn't belong to the loudest voice in the room. It belongs to the person who holds the ledger. Maya holds the ledger."