They were the faces of the old money families who had known my mother for forty years.

They did not care for Mark.

They had only tolerated him because of the Hartwell name.

“This is a farce,” Patricia declared, her voice trembling slightly.

“We will settle this in court tomorrow morning.”

“There is nothing to settle, Patricia,” Thomas said.

“The banks have already processed the freeze. The cards in your son’s pocket are useless.”

Mark’s hand moved instinctively toward his breast pocket.

He stopped himself, his face flushing red under the stage lights.

Juliette watched his hand.

Her eyes went wide, and she took another step back, her heel clicking sharply on the wood floor.

The realization was beginning to show on her face.

The luxury car, the trips to Paris, the promise of a partnership—all of it was slipping away.

She looked at me, her expression turning from smug superiority to sudden terror.

I did not look away.

“You told me it was your money,” Juliette muttered, her voice cracking.

She was looking at Mark now, her eyes bright with sudden tears.