The scream died in Kiana's throat as the second slap landed. The sound was heavier this time, meatier. It snapped Kiana's head to the other side.
"That was for my brother," Elianna said. Her voice was ice water. It froze the air between them.
Kiana stumbled back, her hands covering her face. Her carefully applied makeup was ruined, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivers. Her hair was a mess. She looked nothing like the polished socialite she had been five minutes ago. She looked like a wounded animal.
Elianna stepped forward. She grabbed a fistful of Kiana's designer collar and yanked her close. The fabric tore slightly. Kiana gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
"Listen to me," Elianna whispered, her lips inches from Kiana's ear. "If you ever use their deaths as a prop again, I won't slap you. I'll break your neck."
The threat was delivered with such chilling calm that Kiana felt her knees buckle. She had never seen this Elianna. The old Elianna was a victim. This woman was a predator.
Elianna let go. Kiana staggered backward, nearly tripping over her own heels. She caught herself on a pillar, her chest heaving.
Elianna turned to the horde of reporters. They were clicking away, documenting every tear, every smear of lipstick. "Take your pictures," Elianna told them, her voice flat. "Show the world how the Solis family heiress reacts when asked about the relatives who died for her inheritance."
The cameras immediately swung toward Kiana. The sight was ugly. She was pathetic, sniveling, and broken. It wasn't the narrative she had planned.
Kiana realized she was losing. The sympathy was gone. She forced herself to stand up straight. She wiped her face, smearing the mascara further. She tried a watery smile. "Sister... I know you're angry. I know you hate us. But violence isn't the answer. You're only hurting the people who love you."
It was a desperate pivot. The victim card, played again.
A few murmurs rippled through the crowd. "Maybe she went too far," someone whispered. "She hit her," another said. "That's assault."
Elianna felt the shift. The crowd was fickle. They loved a slap, but they hated a bully. Kiana was trying to paint her as the aggressor.
"The people I love are dead," Elianna said, her voice cutting through the noise. "Because of your family."
Kiana flinched. The moral high ground crumbled beneath her feet. She opened her mouth to speak, to spin another lie, to find another angle.
"I disagree."
The voice was deep, commanding, and utterly calm. It cut through the chaos of the terminal like a knife through smoke.
The crowd parted. Heads turned. The reporters lowered their cameras for a second, confused.
A man in a wheelchair rolled slowly into the space between Elianna and Kiana. He was dressed in the formal uniform of a United States Army officer. The dark green fabric was crisp, the buttons polished. Rows of ribbons adorned his chest, catching the harsh light of the terminal. His shoulders were broad, his posture perfect despite the chair.
The crowd fell silent. The aura of authority radiating from him was palpable. It demanded respect without asking for it.
His eyes found Elianna. They were a piercing, intelligent blue. He gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Elianna stared at him. A jolt of surprise shot through her. This was him. This was Baldwin Armstrong. The man who was supposed to be at the marriage bureau. The man who was sitting in a wheelchair.
He turned his chair to face Kiana. His expression was unreadable, but the look in his eyes was enough to make Kiana take another step back.
