Aiden Knight's POV
The silence that follows Mason Doyle's second impact with the shattered table is deafening. Blood pools beneath his motionless form, mixing with crystal fragments that catch the ballroom's elegant lighting like scattered diamonds.
I straighten my suit jacket and brush glass dust from my sleeves. The gesture is casual, deliberate. Let them all see how little this affects me.
"Someone call an ambulance!" Victoria Roth's voice cracks as she stares at Mason's broken form. Her perfect composure has evaporated, replaced by raw shock.
I settle back into my chair and reach for an abandoned glass of wine from the table. The vintage is excellent. Rich. Complex. Exactly what I'd expect from an establishment of this caliber.
"Sir, step away from the victim!"
Three security guards push through the crowd, hands hovering near their weapons. Their leader, a thick-shouldered man with military bearing, approaches with practiced caution.
"You need to come with us. Now."
