When charm failed, contempt arrived.

“You’re confused,” he continued.

“You’re grieving.

You’ve been unstable since Eleanor died.”

Several people looked at me.

Preston saw it.

He straightened.

The old confidence returned.

That was what he had always been good at—finding the weakest point in a room and pressing his thumb against it.

“She’s been obsessed with us for weeks,” he told the guests.

“This is what happens when someone cannot accept a marriage is over.”

Shelby folded her arms.

“You came here pretending to forgive us.”

“I never pretended to forgive you.”

“You stood beside me.”

“Yes.”

“You helped me choose flowers.”

“Yes.”

“You came to my fittings.”

“Yes.”

Her voice cracked.

“Why?”

I glanced toward Elias Ward near the control booth.

He gave me the smallest nod.

I looked back at Shelby.

“Because I needed you both relaxed.”

Her face lost color.

I turned toward the screen.

“Play the second file.”

Preston moved.

Fast.

He stepped toward the stage.

Two hotel security officers intercepted him.

“Get out of my way.”

One remained expressionless.

“Please return to your table, sir.”

“This is my wedding.”

“No,” I said.

Preston looked up.

“This is evidence.”

The screen went black again.

Then text messages appeared.

Preston’s number.

Shelby’s number.

Dates stretching back eight months.

Some were predictable.

Miss you.

Last night was perfect.

When can you get away?

Others were not.

SHELBY: She still trusts you?

PRESTON: Completely.

SHELBY: Even after the audit?

PRESTON: Especially now.

Eleanor is the problem.

A murmur rolled through the ballroom.

Preston stared at the screen.

I watched his jaw tighten.

Another message appeared.

SHELBY: Once Eleanor is gone, Vivienne signs whatever you put in front of her.

Then:

PRESTON: Grief makes people dependent.

My hand tightened around the microphone.

I had read those words twenty-three times before the wedding.

They still hurt.

Not because of the money.

Not even because of the affair.

Because I remembered exactly how dependent I had been.

After my mother died, I had forgotten to eat.

I slept in two-hour fragments.

Sometimes I would walk into a room and not remember why I was there.

Preston made appointments for me.

Preston brought papers to my bedside.

Preston told me which board meetings I was too exhausted to attend.

Preston told me he was protecting me.

Shelby brought soup.

Shelby sat beside me on the floor of my dressing room while I cried.

Shelby told me I was lucky to have a husband who understood business well enough to carry the burden temporarily.

And while I was mourning my mother,

the two people I trusted most were discussing how useful my grief had become.

Shelby shook her head.

“You’re twisting this.”

I stared at her.

“They’re your messages.”

“You don’t know the context.”

“Then explain it.”

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came.

Preston did.

“This is confidential corporate material obtained illegally.”