“The only reason Adeline can wear that necklace tonight,” Warren said, his voice low but carrying, “is because I spent the last fifty-eight hours in an operating room. My salary pays the mortgage on the house she tells people she decorated. My money covers her cars, her shopping, her lunch accounts, and most of her father’s social pretending. So before you say the word freeloader to me again, take a good look around, Prescott. This family survives on other people’s labor and calls it legacy.”
Adeline made a choked sound. Warren didn’t even glance at her.
“And Violet,” he continued, letting his voice settle across the whole room, “has done more actual work to keep your father’s company out of federal prison than everyone seated at this table combined.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody breathed.
I put my hand briefly over Warren’s wrist. “Thank you,” I said. “But I can walk out on my own.”
He gave one short nod and stepped aside.
I turned my back on the table, on Randolph, on Prescott, on the people who had eaten and laughed while a man hit his wife, and I walked toward the grand doors. My heels clicked against marble. Security moved instinctively, then hesitated. No one stopped me.