But Eleanor’s knees never touched the marble.

A sudden, violent shift in the room's atmosphere shattered the cruel spectacle. Tearing through the dense crowd of onlookers like a physical shockwave came Alexander. Dressed in an immaculate, sharply tailored navy-blue tuxedo, his presence commanded immediate, terrified respect. He was the host of this grand event, the owner of the estate, and above all, Eleanor’s fiercely protective son.

His face, usually a mask of composed professionalism, was currently a terrifying portrait of raw, untethered fury. He had witnessed the slap from across the hall. He had seen the mocking smiles of his guests.

Alexander lunged into the center of the conflict with explosive speed. Just inches before his mother's knees could touch the disgraced floor, he swept his strong arm beneath her shoulders. With a firm, protective upward pull, he hoisted Eleanor back onto her feet. He immediately shifted his broad frame, placing himself as an impenetrable physical barrier between his trembling mother and the woman in the red dress.