A quiet gasp rippled through the front rows.

Juliette smiled, her red-painted lips parting as she looked down at her hands.

Patricia clapped softly, her heavy gold rings clicking together in the silence.

Mark looked at me, his expression challenging, waiting for me to break.

He thought I had nothing left.

I reached into the inner pocket of my wool coat and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope.

The red wax seal on the back was already broken.

I handed the document inside to Thomas.

“Now, Thomas,” I whispered.

Thomas stood up.

His tall, imposing frame drew the attention of the front rows immediately.

“Mark,” Thomas said, his voice quiet but carrying easily across the wooden floor.

Mark frowned, his hand still resting on the piano lid.

“Thomas, this is not the time,” Mark said, his smile tightening.

“We are in the middle of a program.”

“This takes precedence,” Thomas said.

He walked toward the riser, his leather shoes clicking loudly on the oak floorboards.

He did not look at Juliette, nor did he acknowledge Patricia’s sudden, icy glare.

“I have here a certified directive from the Hartwell estate trustees,” Thomas said.

He held up the white paper, his hand perfectly steady.

“As of five minutes ago, your access to all Hartwell trust accounts has been frozen.”

The room went entirely silent.

The sound of the wind against the glass seemed to grow louder.

Mark’s hand slipped off the piano.

“What did you say?” Mark asked, his voice dropping.

He stepped down from the riser, his face turning pale under the bright stage lights.

Patricia took a step forward, her hand clutching her pearl necklace so hard the string strained.

“This is absurd,” Patricia said, her voice sharp. “Thomas, you have no authority to do this.”

“I have the sole authority of the late Clara Hartwell’s estate,” Thomas replied.