Damon Meyer reached out to pull her into his arms, but Olivia Hayes sidestepped him with a sharp, impatient movement.

"I don't care what the reason is. I need to see him right now. Send your people out to help track him down."

Damon’s jaw tightened. He wasn't thrilled about chasing down her ex-husband, but tonight’s banquet was a high-stakes turning point for the company. For Olivia’s sake, he bit back his resentment, swearing that once Ethan Spencer was found and the night was over, he’d settle all his accounts with him—new and old.

It didn't take long for his team to report back.

"Ms. Hayes, Mr. Meyer, our people tracked Ethan. He was spotted in a Maybach belonging to the Luo family, but the car only dropped him off at the terminal. He didn't linger."

The operative paused, his voice dropping. "Ethan has already boarded a cruise bound for Portsmouth."

"What?!"

"Portsmouth? What the hell would he be doing in Portsmouth?"

"What are you all paid for? You couldn't stop one man?"

Olivia’s composure snapped. She whipped her phone across the room, the expensive glass shattering against the wall with a sickening crunch. She pressed her palms into her temples, the sharp throb behind her eyes making it hard to breathe. A suffocating sense of panic began to set in. She couldn't tell if her rage was because Ethan had stood her up, because he had slipped through her fingers, or because his sudden departure made her feel an uncharacteristic, hollow fear.

He was already on the water. It was too late to drag him back.

She ground her teeth, her voice trembling with fury. "Ethan, you really have grown a spine, haven't you?"

Just moments ago, she had been convincing herself that Ethan was only throwing another one of his pathetic tantrums—that he was trying to scare her. She had been married to him for years; he had no friends, no connections, and certainly no one brave enough to help him defy her. But reality hit her like a sledgehammer. The arrogance of her assumption felt sickeningly laughable now.

There was no other choice. She and Damon had to rely on their own team of chefs to fake their way through the night and hope for the best.

The kitchen staff scrambled, but the performance was hollow. Olivia stood at the head of the table, her smile brittle, her fingertips ice-cold.

At the other end of the long table, Alfred Robertson picked up his fork. He took one bite of the main course and immediately set his cutlery down.

The clink of silver against porcelain was barely audible, but in the sudden, oppressive silence of the hall, it sounded like a gavel striking a verdict.

The other members of the inspection team followed suit, picking at their food, exchanging wary glances, and furrowing their brows. Finally, they shook their heads in silent, grim unison. A thick fog of disappointment and distrust descended upon the opulent dining room.

Alfred Robertson pressed his napkin to the corner of his mouth, his icy blue eyes fixed on Olivia. His gaze was a blade.

"Ms. Hayes," he said, his voice clipped. "This dish—the layers of flavor, the richness of the sauce, the precise temperature of the fish—it is miles away from the hand that performed miracles in the past."

He leaned forward, his stare drilling into her. "Is this really prepared by Chef Ethan?"

The room went deathly silent. Every executive, every assistant, and every trembling sous-chef in the back held their breath, their eyes locked on Olivia’s drained, chalk-white face.

Olivia felt the world tilt. Every ounce of her desperate optimism shattered under the scrutiny of this industry titan. She dug her nails into her palms, drawing blood, as her voice hitched.

"Mr. Robertson... I am so terribly sorry."

She forced the words out. "Chef Ethan has fallen ill with a sudden emergency and is unable to attend."

"Tonight's dishes were prepared by our top-tier culinary team, following his recipes and instructions to the letter—"

"Enough."

Alfred interrupted her without a shred of hesitation, the last sliver of polite decorum vanishing from his face.