At the head of the room, a man in a dark suit was typing rapidly on a tablet.

It was Mr. Harrison, the club’s assistant manager.

He looked anxious, his collar seemingly too tight for his neck.

He walked over to Gloria and tapped her gently on the shoulder.

Gloria turned, her smile fading slightly at the interruption.

“What is it, Harrison?” she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut through the chatter nearby. “I am in the middle of a toast.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Ralston,” Harrison said, his voice low. “We had a small issue with the card transaction for the luncheon deposit.”

Gloria waved her hand dismissively.

“Then run it again,” she said. “My son’s company handles all of our family event accounts. There shouldn’t be any issue.”

“We did run it again, ma’am,” Harrison said. “Three times. The system flagged it as restricted.”

Gloria’s cheeks flushed a light pink beneath her heavy powder.

“That is absurd,” she said, her voice rising enough to make the women nearest to her turn around. “Graham’s business has a multi-million-dollar line of credit. Call the bank.”