The two guards didn’t drag the two-toned hair girl away. Instead, their iron grips tightened around the arms of the woman in the red dress.

She struggled, her heavily made-up face contorting in terror:
“What on earth are you doing? Let me go! I am a VIP guest, I am a shareholder of this corporation!”

The girl stepped closer, the sharp click-clack of her stiletto heels echoing against the marble floor like a countdown clock to the end of an empire. She picked up the letter that had slipped from the woman’s grasp and smiled coldly:

“A shareholder? You’re right. But that was the truth five minutes ago. Do you know why the wax seal on this letter bears the scales of justice?”

The crowd went deathly silent. The woman trembled, barely able to breathe: “Who… who are you?”

“I am the legal representative of the new Board of Directors. And the letter you just held wasn’t an invitation… it was an Asset Seizure Order.”

A wave of gasps erupted like a bomb. It turned out this lavish gala wasn’t held to honor her; it was a trap set to catch the woman who had embezzled tens of millions from the city’s charity fund.

“You’re lying! No one has that power!” the woman screamed, lunging toward the exit in a desperate, futile attempt to escape.

The girl with the two-toned hair calmly pulled a phone from her bag and turned on the speakerphone. A raspy but authoritative voice boomed throughout the hall:
“That’s enough, Claudia. You’ve used my family’s reputation to hide your filth for long enough. From this moment on, you are no longer a daughter-in-law of the Hamilton family.”

It was the voice of Old Man Hamilton—the most powerful man in the financial empire, whom everyone feared and respected.

The “Queen” in red collapsed to the floor. Her fake crown fell off, rolling pathetically to the girl’s feet. It was revealed that the girl with the “bizarre” hair, the one she called “cheap,” was actually the only granddaughter of Old Man Hamilton—the one who had just returned from abroad to purge the “parasites” destroying the family from within.

The girl leaned down, picked up the fallen crown, looked at it with pure disdain, and dropped it straight into her half-finished glass of champagne:

“You said I wasn’t on the guest list? Correct. Because I’m not a guest. I am the owner of this hotel, the host of this gala, and the person signing your arrest warrant tomorrow morning.”

The crowd that had been laughing just moments ago collectively bowed their heads. No one dared to meet her sharp, cold gaze. The sycophants who had hovered around the woman in red now scattered, terrified of being caught in the crossfire.