The bet hung in the air between them like smoke.
The man in the tuxedo leaned in with a lazy, arrogant smile. “If you can really dance, prove it. Fifty thousand.”
Miss Alara didn’t flinch. She simply set the silver tray of champagne glasses down on a nearby table, lifted her chin, and said two words that silenced the entire room.
“I accept.”
She turned and walked.
The crowd parted like water. Spotlights followed her as she moved down the center of the ballroom in that devastating silver gown, the long white train flowing behind her like liquid moonlight. Every step was deliberate. Every inch of her screamed power.
She reached the far end of the hall, turned slowly, and walked straight back toward the man who had dared to doubt her.
He stared, no longer smiling.
When she stopped in front of him, the entire ballroom seemed to lean forward.
“You should have asked before you bet against me,” she said softly, almost kindly.
From the side, an older man in a black tuxedo stepped forward, voice carrying across the silent room.
“Miss Alara… your father would like a word.”
Alara’s lips curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile.
She had just won far more than fifty thousand.