His face was flushed under the bright lights, his jaw clenched tight.

Celeste was right behind him, her chin tilted up, though her fingers trembled slightly against her champagne flute.

“This is a private industry event,” Bennett said, his voice low but tense.

“I am a major shareholder, Bennett,” I said, turning to face him. “And a lifetime member of this committee.”

“You are a relic of the past,” Celeste said, stepping forward.

Her voice was a little too loud for the quiet circle we had formed.

A few nearby guests paused their conversations to look our way.

“We are moving the brand forward,” Celeste said, her eyes flashing. “The board has already approved my appointment as the new creative director.”

I looked at Celeste.

I looked at my grandmother’s necklace resting against her collarbone.

“The board cannot approve a thief,” I said quietly.

“Watch your mouth, Evelyn,” Bennett hissed, stepping closer.

“Is there a problem here, Bennett?” Arthur Vance asked.

His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of fifty years of Manhattan influence.

Bennett immediately smoothed his expression, forced a smile, and patted Arthur’s shoulder.