Claudia gripped Imogen's elbow, her nails digging into the tender flesh. She marched her back into the ballroom like a warden escorting a prisoner.
"Smile," Claudia hissed. "Stop looking like a funeral."
They reached the edge of the crowd. The wine stain on Imogen's white fur drew eyes like a beacon.
Bella looked at her with pretended sympathy.
A man in a sharp suit-one of the family's lawyers, Mr. Davenport-approached them, holding a slim leather folio.
"Miss Imogen," Davenport said, his eyes cold and devoid of pity. "If I could have a moment. There are some documents that require your immediate attention."
Imogen stared at the folio. She knew this game.
"No thank you," Imogen said.
"Sign it," Claudia whispered harshly. "Don't make a scene. It's for your own protection."
"Protection from what?" Imogen asked loudly. "From my sister stealing my inheritance? Or from the hell you sent me to?"
Claudia's face went rigid. "Lower your voice."
People were turning. The circle of silence was forming again.
Suddenly, Davenport opened the folio with a theatrical flourish. He held up a document.
"This is a court order," he announced, his voice projecting across the silent room.
"A temporary restraining order, filed by Miss Bella Willis against you. And this," he produced another sheaf of papers, "is a petition for a conservatorship, citing your recent incarceration and documented... instability."
The word hit the room like a bomb.
Conservatorship.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. They weren't just shaming her; they were trying to legally erase her.
Imogen stared at the lawyer. "What are you talking about?"
"It's for the best, dear," Claudia said, her face a mask of tragic concern. "You're not well. You need help. We're just trying to manage your affairs so you don't hurt yourself... or the family's stock value."
It was perfect. The final nail in the coffin. They were using her prison sentence not just as a mark of shame, but as a legal weapon to declare her mentally unfit. To seize control of her shares, her inheritance, her very life.
Imogen shook with rage. "You are lying."
She stepped toward Claudia.
Claudia threw herself backward, stumbling into a nearby table and knocking over a floral arrangement. Water and white roses spilled across the floor. "Don't touch me! Security! She's becoming violent!"
Ford pushed through the crowd. "What is going on?"
"She's out of control!" Claudia cried, pointing at Imogen. "Davenport was just trying to help her, and she attacked me!"
Ford looked at Imogen. His eyes were full of disgust. "A conservatorship? Is it true?"
Imogen looked at him. "If I said no, would you believe me?"
Ford didn't answer. That was the answer.
Imogen laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound.
She bent down. The crowd flinched.
She picked up a single, long-stemmed white rose from the floor.
"Ford!" Claudia screamed. "She's completely lost it!"
Ford stepped back, looking around for security.
Imogen didn't lunge at anyone. She held the rose up, twirling it between her fingers.
"A conservatorship is a fascinating legal tool," Imogen said, her voice calm. Terrifyingly calm. "It requires absolute proof of incompetence. But what if the person you're trying to silence is the only one who knows where the bodies are buried? Or, in our case, where the money is. Tell me, Father," she said, her eyes finding Richard Willis in the crowd, "how is the shell corporation in the Cayman Islands doing? The one registered under my mother's maiden name? Still profitable?"
