I let my eyes move over him.
Then Chloe.
She shifted under my gaze, chin lifting in the defensive way of girls who confuse defiance with importance.
I looked at the necklace.
The sapphires were good.
Excellent, actually.
The replica had been worth every dollar.
“My grandmother would have been amused,” I said.
Chloe’s mouth twisted.
“Excuse me?”
“Do not speak to me.”
I did not raise my voice.
That was why she obeyed.
Richard stepped closer.
“Cut the act.”
“You told me you were in San Francisco saving global infrastructure,” I said. “Did the regulatory snags resolve themselves, or did you simply get lost on your way to the airport?”
A few people nearby laughed softly.
Richard’s face darkened.
“This is childish.”
“No,” I said. “Childish is buying expensive things for children.”
Chloe flushed.
Her hand flew to the necklace.
“This was a gift.”
“Yes,” I said. “I can see that.”
The dinner bell chimed before Richard could speak.
I smiled slightly.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to host. Beatrice has arranged your seats.”
The dining room inside the Temple of Dendur glittered with white orchids, crystal candelabras, candlelight, and the silent violence of social ranking. In rooms like that, seating charts were not logistics. They were public verdicts.
Richard marched toward the front.
He expected Table One.
My husband always did.
He passed it.
Then Table Five.
Then Fifteen.
His pace slowed.
Chloe leaned toward him.
“Where are we sitting?”
He flagged down an event coordinator.
“The Sterling placement.”
The coordinator looked at the clipboard.
A twitch moved near his mouth.
“Mr. Sterling, you and your guest are at Table Eighty-Four.”
Richard stared.
“What?”
“Table Eighty-Four, sir.”
The darkest corner of the room.
Between the swinging doors of the catering kitchen and the hallway leading to the restrooms.
A table reserved for late additions, junior publicists, and sponsors whose checks had cleared but whose names had not mattered.
Chloe’s face crumpled.
“I am not sitting by the bathrooms.”
“Sit down,” Richard snapped.
The sharpness in his voice made several heads turn.
He realized too late that his temper was bleeding in public.
Chloe sat, humiliated, while the blue stones at her throat caught the light like evidence.
Richard stormed toward the head table.
I was seated between the governor of New York and Jonathan Weiss, the CEO of one of the city’s largest investment banks. Jonathan was telling me a charmingly ruthless story about a boardroom coup in Zurich when Richard placed both hands on the tablecloth and leaned over me.
“Outside,” he hissed. “Now.”
I took a sip of sparkling water.
Then set the glass down.
“Jonathan, forgive me. My husband appears to be having a stress-induced episode.”
Jonathan’s eyes flicked to Richard.
“Take your time.”
I rose and walked toward a secluded alcove beside the ancient Egyptian stonework. Richard followed like a bull who had mistaken a matador’s stillness for weakness.
The moment we were out of immediate earshot, he exploded.
“You think humiliating me in front of the board will win me back?”
I watched him.
There was lipstick near his collar.
Chloe’s shade.
A small, vulgar detail.
“I don’t want you back.”
That stopped him for half a second.
Then he laughed.
Cruel.
Relieved.
“You say that now.”
“No, Richard. I mean it with the full force of a woman who has read your invoices.”
His face changed.
Just slightly.
Enough.
“You went through my private accounts?”
“You left your iPad on the kitchen island.”
His jaw tightened.
“You had no right.”
“You had no right to use my family’s name, my money, my trust, my grandmother’s legacy, and then bring your mistress to my charity ball wearing the corpse of your promise.”
For the first time, he looked uneasy.
Then ego saved him from reflection.
“Fine,” he snapped. “You want to talk plainly? That girl out there makes me feel alive. You are old money and dead weight. Tomorrow morning, I’m filing for divorce. I’ll take the penthouse. I’ll lock you out of the accounts. Sentinel goes public Monday. I’ll be worth twelve billion dollars, Serena. I will bury you in legal fees until your family’s precious dignity is all you have left.”
I leaned against the cool stone.
“Have you checked your phone in the last hour?”
Richard frowned.
Then reached into his jacket pocket.
His screen lit.
Forty-seven missed calls.
David, CFO.
General counsel.
Lead underwriter.
Private bank.
Board chairman.
His thumb hovered.
“What did you do?”
“I spent the week with Arthur Pendleton.”
The blood left his face.
Arthur had managed Hastings money for thirty years. He disliked theatrics, disliked tech valuations, disliked men who said disruption when they meant debt. Richard had always called him “the undertaker.”
He had been more correct than he knew.