“You should be grateful we even let you sit at the main table,” Prescott went on. “Go do what you usually do and clean up after my wife.”
The room held its breath. There are moments when truth enters a room like a flame touching a gas line. Warren had spent years swallowing insults for the sake of peace, for the sake of his son, for the sake of not turning every holiday into war. But there are only so many times a man can be invited to his own degradation before he decides to stop attending.
He took one slow step toward Prescott.
“The only reason Adeline can wear that necklace tonight,” Warren said, his voice low but carrying, “is because I spent the last fifty-eight hours in an operating room. My salary pays the mortgage on the house she tells people she decorated. My money covers her cars, her shopping, her lunch accounts, and most of her father’s social pretending. So before you say the word freeloader to me again, take a good look around, Prescott. This family survives on other people’s labor and calls it legacy.”
Adeline made a choked sound. Warren didn’t even glance at her.
“And Violet,” he continued, letting his voice settle across the whole room, “has done more actual work to keep your father’s company out of federal prison than everyone seated at this table combined.”
Nobody laughed. Nobody breathed.
I put my hand briefly over Warren’s wrist. “Thank you,” I said. “But I can walk out on my own.”
He gave one short nod and stepped aside.
I turned my back on the table, on Randolph, on Prescott, on the people who had eaten and laughed while a man hit his wife, and I walked toward the grand doors. My heels clicked against marble. Security moved instinctively, then hesitated. No one stopped me.
Outside, Philadelphia met me cold and clean.
Behind me I heard the doors open. “You’ll be back by morning,” Prescott called from the top of the steps. “You have nowhere to go. Nobody else is going to want damaged goods.”
I didn’t turn around.
Less than two minutes later, the low, powerful purr of an engine rolled up the avenue. A black armored Rolls-Royce curved into the hotel drive and stopped directly in front of me. Four security men emerged as if choreographed, each one in a dark suit, each one scanning the perimeter with the cool alertness of former military. One opened the rear door. I got in.