Something inside me went still. I did not decide to stand in a burst of emotion. It was colder than that. Cleaner. Like setting down a burden.
My chair scraped against the marble floor. The sound cut through the laughter like a blade. Every face turned toward me. Prescott’s hand shot under the table and clamped around my wrist, hard enough to bruise.
“Sit down,” he muttered through his smile. “Don’t embarrass me.”
I removed his hand finger by finger. Then I picked up my champagne glass and stood fully.
“Flawless business acumen, Randolph?” I said into the quiet.
He froze.
I let my voice carry without shouting. Years of being underestimated had taught me something useful: people listened harder when you sounded calm.
“Is that what we’re calling the eleven-million-dollar tax discrepancy I buried for you last month? Or should we use that phrase for the offshore shell accounts you used to hide losses from the investors in this room? I’m trying to keep up with the family vocabulary.”
The room went rigid. Randolph stared at me like I had begun speaking another language. I took one step away from the table so everyone could see me clearly.