Celeste blinked, surprised.
“This is the place where professional associations are evaluated,” Arden said. “Yours, for instance.”
Celeste’s confidence wavered.
Arden’s counsel, Marcus Vale—not related to Celeste, though Arden had always enjoyed the coincidence—stepped forward from the shadows holding a leather folder.
“Ms. Vale,” he said, “your consulting contract with Winslow Development includes compensation through invoices submitted to a Fairchild-backed credit facility. Several of those invoices are now under review.”
Celeste’s lips parted.
Blake spun toward her. “What invoices?”
Celeste did not answer.
Lenette made a faint sound. “This is vulgar. Arden, you are behaving like a spiteful shopgirl.”
Arden looked at Lenette’s pale gold gown, the diamonds at her throat, the emerald bracelet she had worn for three years.
“My grandmother’s bracelet suits you,” Arden said.
Lenette froze.
Blake stared at his mother’s wrist.
“What?” he said.
Arden nodded to Marcus.
He opened the folder.
“The bracelet was part of the Fairchild estate collection,” Marcus said. “It was loaned to Mrs. Lenette Winslow for a charity luncheon six years ago and never returned. Similar inventory discrepancies include two paintings, a Sevres tea set, and a pair of sapphire earrings.”
Lenette’s hand flew to the bracelet.
“I was told those were family pieces.”
“They are,” Arden said. “Mine.”
The corridor had become very quiet.
Through the ballroom doors came the muffled sounds of polite music and people pretending not to listen.
Blake’s voice dropped into something almost pleading. “Arden. Come home. We can discuss this privately.”
Home.
The word almost made her laugh.
Home was where he had left her among broken glass.
Home was where Lenette measured her worth by table settings.
Home was where Celeste’s name arrived on receipts, invitations, and whispers long before Arden saw the woman wearing diamonds beside her husband.
Arden reached into her small silver clutch and removed an envelope.
She handed it to Blake.
He looked down, frowning. “What is this?”
“A notice.”
He tore it open.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then again.
Then once more, as though repetition could rewrite ink.
“The mansion,” Arden said, “is held by a Fairchild residential trust. Your occupancy was connected to our marriage and certain financial covenants attached to your company. Those covenants were breached.”
Blake looked up slowly.
“You cannot throw me out of my house.”
“I am not throwing you out of your house,” Arden said. “I am reclaiming mine.”
Lenette swayed.
Celeste took one step back, as though distance could detach her from disaster.
Blake’s face changed then. The charm fell away first. Then the panic. What remained was the old arrogance, naked and cornered.
“You think this makes you powerful?” he said. “You hid behind money because you knew no one would choose you without it.”
Arden studied him.
Eight years ago, those words would have found a wound. Four years ago, they would have drawn blood. Even that morning, perhaps, they might have lodged somewhere painful.
Tonight, they simply arrived too late.
“No, Blake,” she said. “I hid the money to see who would choose me without it.”
His expression faltered.
She stepped past him.
He caught her wrist.
It was quick. Desperate. Ugly.
The corridor seemed to narrow around the gesture.
Arden looked down at his hand.
“Remove it.”
For a second, Blake did not.
Then Halden moved.
So did security.
Blake released her as though burned.
Arden did not rub her wrist. She did not give him the satisfaction of seeing where his fingers had pressed.
Marcus handed Blake another document.
“This is also for you,” Marcus said.
