The chandelier in the Garza penthouse dining room cost more than most people's houses. I knew because I'd signed the invoice three years ago, back when Elliot still asked my opinion on things like light fixtures and whether the marble should be Carrara or Calacatta. Now I sat beneath it at the head of the table, watching twenty-three members of the Garza family pretend not to stare at the door.
Elliot was late. He was never late to Thanksgiving dinner. Charles Garza sat at the opposite end, silent and still as a statue, his hands folded on the tablecloth. My hands were folded too. I'd learned that from him, actually—how stillness could be a kind of armor.
The door opened. Elliot walked in wearing the charcoal suit I'd picked out for him last Christmas. On his arm was a woman I'd seen twice before: once in a file photo when I approved her hospital credentials for a Garza Group charity board, and once in the lobby of our building, stepping out of the elevator with her hair still wet.
"Sorry we're late," Elliot said. His voice filled the room the way it always did. "Everyone, this is Dr. Zoya Morales. Family friend."
The table went quiet. Not the comfortable quiet of people focused on their food. The held-breath quiet of people watching a car accident in slow motion.
Zoya smiled. She had the kind of smile that looked warm in photographs. "It's so lovely to finally meet everyone," she said. "Elliot's told me so much about you all."
She was beautiful. I noticed that the way you notice weather. Dark hair, perfect posture, a burgundy dress that probably cost what most people made in a month. She looked at me for exactly two seconds, her smile never changing, then looked away.
Elliot pulled out the chair beside his usual seat—two chairs down from me—and Zoya sat. She touched his shoulder as she did. A small gesture. Familiar.
"Darling," she said quietly, "could you pass the water?"
Darling.
I picked up my wine glass and took a sip. The Bordeaux was excellent. I'd chosen it myself last week, before I knew we'd be having an extra guest.
Diana Garza, Elliot's aunt, cleared her throat. "Well," she said brightly. "Isn't this nice. Dr. Morales, Elliot mentioned you work at Mount Sinai?"
"I do," Zoya said. "OB-GYN. It's demanding, but I love it. Bringing new life into the world—there's nothing like it."
Her hand rested on the table beside her plate. I watched her fingers drum once, twice, then go still.
The first course arrived. Butternut squash soup. I'd approved the menu two weeks ago with the chef. I ate slowly, letting the conversations around me blur into background noise. Elliot laughed at something his cousin said. Zoya laughed too, a beat later, her hand moving to rest on Elliot's forearm.
Halfway through the main course—herb-roasted turkey, chestnut stuffing, all the traditional things—Zoya reached for her water glass. She lifted it with her left hand, fingers spread, wrist angled just so.
The diamond caught the chandelier light and threw it back in a thousand tiny pieces.
Twelve carats, emerald cut, platinum setting. I knew because I'd seen the invoice. Two weeks ago, buried in a stack of internal fund transfers I signed off on every month. "Joint venture acquisition," the memo had said. I'd thought it was real estate.
The conversations around the table stuttered and died. Diana Garza stared. Elliot's cousin Marcus set down his fork. Even the servers slowed their movements, eyes flicking to the ring, then to me, then quickly away.
I set my wine glass down. I didn't look at Elliot. I didn't look at Zoya. I cut a piece of turkey, put it in my mouth, chewed slowly. It was perfectly cooked. The chef had done an excellent job.
"That's a beautiful ring," Diana said finally. Her voice was too loud.
Zoya glanced down at her hand as if she'd forgotten it was there. "Oh," she said. "Thank you. It was a gift."
She didn't say from whom. She didn't have to.
I finished my turkey. I took another sip of wine. My hands stayed steady. I'd had a decade to learn how to keep my hands steady.
Dessert came and went. Pumpkin pie, apple tart, coffee. People made small talk that sounded like static. Elliot's voice rose and fell somewhere to my left. I didn't track the words.
When dinner ended, Charles Garza stood. Everyone else stood too, the way they always did when he moved. He looked at me across the length of the table.
"Sabrina," he said. "A word in my study."
I followed him down the hall. The study smelled like leather and old books and the kind of money that didn't need to announce itself. He closed the door and walked to his desk without looking back.
He opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope. He slid it across the polished wood toward me.
"Open it," he said.
I did. Inside were two documents. The first was a trust agreement. One hundred million dollars, irrevocable, in my name only. The second was a proxy form, signed and notarized, pledging his board votes to my sole discretion.
I looked up. Charles Garza's face was unreadable.
"You are the only person at that table tonight who did not flinch," he said.
I pressed my lips together. Looked slightly to the left, at the window overlooking Fifth Avenue. The lights of the city stretched out like scattered diamonds.
I took the envelope. "Thank you," I said.
He nodded once. I left.
The guest room was on the third floor. I'd been sleeping there for a year. Elliot had stopped asking why. I locked the door behind me, opened the bottom drawer of the desk, and took out the photograph I kept there.
Me at twenty-two. Garden party at my parents' estate in Connecticut. White sundress, champagne flute, head thrown back mid-laugh. I didn't remember what had been funny. I looked happy.
I looked at that girl for a long time. Then I put the photograph back, closed the drawer, and locked it.
I sat at the desk and took out a legal pad. At the top of the first page, I wrote a single word: "Shares."
Then I began making a list.
