Julian’s face drained of color in real time. Margaux’s laughter cut off mid-breath.
I looked over at my parents, both of them soaked through, both of them still trying to catch their breath at the edge of that ridiculous pool. My mother had one hand pressed flat against her chest, the way she did whenever she was trying to steady herself without making a scene about it. My father had already shrugged out of the ruined jacket and draped it, absurdly, gallantly, around my mother’s shoulders instead, as though the damage could somehow be redistributed by sheer force of will.
“I’m sorry it took me this long,” I told them.
Then the gates at the far end of the venue swung open, and five black sedans began rolling slowly up the drive toward us.
Part Two: The Collapse of Ashworth Hospitality
Julian lunged for the microphone the second he found his voice again, but I stepped back before he could reach it. Behind him, I watched Margaux’s expression cycle through something close to disbelief, then something closer to calculation, as though she were already trying to work out which of her contacts could make this particular problem disappear the way she’d apparently made others disappear before.
“What evidence?” he hissed at me, low enough that only I could hear it.
“The kind your mother stored on a server she genuinely believed I was only maintaining for wedding invitations.”
Margaux snapped her fingers sharply at her head of security. “Get her out of here. And those two dripping embarrassments with her.”
The security chief didn’t so much as twitch in that direction. He pressed two fingers to his earpiece instead. “Ma’am. Our instructions just changed.”
