Cheers. Applause. Whistles. The crowd rose to its feet.
Evelyn’s face was white with disbelief. Richard’s grin had vanished. And Adrian—his eyes shone with something that looked a lot like reverence.
From the edge of the room, the head of security, Marcus Grant, raised his phone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice echoing, “allow me to reintroduce Miss Naomi Laurent—the former principal soloist of the American National Ballet.”
Gasps rippled through the audience.
Evelyn whispered, “She’s supposed to be crippled…”
Naomi met her gaze. “Rumors of my end,” she said quietly, “were greatly exaggerated.”
Richard stumbled back, his arrogance collapsing into panic. The humiliation burned through the crowd like wildfire.
Naomi straightened. “Mr. Harrington,” she said evenly, “you made a public promise. I danced. I won. Will you honor your word—or admit to two hundred witnesses that your word means nothing?”
Richard spluttered, but before he could speak, Adrian stepped forward. “Father, enough. Miss Laurent, I apologize for his behavior. No one deserves what you endured tonight.”
“Don’t you dare apologize for me!” Richard barked.
