Everyone turned.
A man in a white dinner jacket stepped out from behind the VIP bar.
Victor Laurent.
The Fleet’s Senior Finance Director.
The man who had spent six months warning me that the Marceau family was “too important” to offend.
The man who had personally recommended extending their membership.
The man whose department processed every transfer request before it reached my desk.
The Fleet Captain’s face darkened.
“Victor.”
Victor didn’t look at him.
He looked at me.
“Madam Chairwoman,” he said smoothly, “this emotional display could damage the Fleet’s reputation.”
I almost laughed.
My dress was torn.
Champagne was drying on my skin.
A forged signature was glowing on a public screen.
And he was worried about reputation.
“No,” I said. “The crime damaged the Fleet’s reputation. I’m just letting everyone see who committed it.”
Victor’s polite smile faded.
“You are making a mistake.”
“That is what guilty men always say when consequences arrive.”
His jaw flexed.
Then my legal director opened the final file.
The screen flashed.
AUTHORIZED BY: VICTOR LAURENT.
The deck exploded with gasps.
Roland Marceau turned on him.
“You said she would never see that!”
Victor closed his eyes for half a second.
Too late.
The sentence had already escaped.
The Fleet Captain stepped toward him.
“You approved the forged transfer?”
Victor lifted his chin.
“I protected the Fleet from weak leadership.”
There it was.
Not apology.
Not denial.
Truth sharpened by arrogance.
He looked at me with naked contempt.
“Your father built an empire of ships. You turned it into a charity for crew members and old captains. You waste money on safety audits, worker housing, maintenance upgrades. The Fleet needed stronger hands.”
I glanced toward the crew lining the upper deck.
Captains.
Engineers.
Stewards.
Deckhands.
People who had worked through storms while men like Victor toasted investors from private salons.