Julian’s voice played clearly: ordering the sabotage of the Montalban yacht. Ordering the destruction of Clara’s father’s company. Bribery. Money laundering. Tax evasion on a massive scale. Even the “donation” he had just promised for Clara’s mother had never been transferred—it was a lie.
The church fell into chaos.
Reporters went wild. Billionaires who had come to laugh now looked pale, realizing their own names were tied to some of the dealings.
Julian’s face turned ghostly white. “Turn it off! Cut the feed!”
But it was too late. The livestream had already reached millions.
Rafe turned to me. His eyes, now fully revealed, were gentle.
“Clara,” he said softly, “I never meant for you to suffer. I was watching from the streets for weeks, trying to find a way to reach you safely. When I heard what Julian planned, I took the place of the beggar he had chosen. I’m sorry you had to endure this humiliation.”
Tears—different tears—filled my eyes.
He took my hand. “The five million has already been transferred to your mother’s hospital account. My people handled it an hour ago. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning with the best team in Asia.”
Julian lunged forward, screaming, but security—actual Montalban security who had been disguised among the guests—grabbed him.
