“Who is running Bluebell, Arden?” Elliot asked, his voice dropping to a low, cautious register.

He took a step toward me, ignoring Graham entirely.

“We can make a deal,” Elliot said. “The firm can survive this if we cooperate.”

“There is no deal, Elliot,” I said.

I felt a cold, calm certainty settle over me.

For three years, I had sat at dinner parties listening to them talk about their empires.

I had poured their drinks and smiled at their jokes.

Now, the room felt smaller, and they felt much less imposing.

Graham looked at me, his eyes wild with anger and confusion.

“You did this,” Graham said, his voice rising. “You set me up.”

“You set yourself up when you decided I was too stupid to notice,” I said.

I glanced down at the red wine stain on the white oak floor.

It looked like a permanent scar on the perfect surface.

“I knew about Bluebell Lane,” Maren whispered from beside me, her voice steady and proud.

Graham spun toward her, but Maren didn’t flinch.

“You should have looked at the deed to your own house, Graham,” Maren said.