“Constance,” I said, and her name sounded strange in my mouth without any title attached to it, “yesterday you informed a room full of strangers that I was unworthy of bridal white because I grew up without a family. Today you are here to argue that I ought to rescue yours.”
Her chin lifted with reflexive pride. “You’re being vindictive.”
“I’m being exact.”
Her eyes shone suddenly with panic she could not conceal. “You have to reconsider. Harold has already committed resources. We have obligations. People are depending on this.”
People. Again. Always the abstract crowd that appears when consequences approach the wealthy. The nameless employees, the associates, the clients, the community—summoned not from care, but as shields.
“And what,” I asked quietly, “did you think happened to people like me when your family decided we did not count?”
She faltered.
“I apologized to Derek,” she said, though we both knew she had not. “I can apologize to you too.”
I looked at her for a long moment. Behind panic, beneath pride, below even calculation, I saw something else.
Fear.