Alaric stood perfectly straight, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces at the dining table.
"Madam's message is quite clear," the butler said, his voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling. "The application for membership is void."
Daniel staggered backward, his shoulder colliding with the edge of the mahogany table. "Void? No, wait. You haven't even reviewed my portfolio."
"The Whitmore Club does not review portfolios of this nature," Alaric replied, his tone entirely flat. "Furthermore, the Club will never accept a household that allows a daughter of the Whitmore family to knit her own Thanksgiving scarf while treating her as the hired help."
I remained in my seat. My hands rested in my lap.
For twenty years, I thought Grandmother had erased me. She never called. She never sent a letter. Yet she had ordered Alaric to watch from a distance all this time. She kept the E.W. slot open on the very first page of the registry, waiting for the day I finally woke up.
"Alaric, please!" Daniel lunged forward.
He grabbed the sleeve of Alaric's immaculate tailcoat. The old-money guests gasped. Tom, the venture capitalist, turned his face away in sheer secondhand embarrassment.
"I learned everything," Daniel pleaded, his voice cracking into a high pitch. "I rode those damn horses every morning at five! I memorized the lineage! I spent six months preparing for this exact night!"
Alaric looked down at the hand clutching his sleeve. He did not pull away. He simply stared at Daniel's knuckles until Daniel swallowed hard and released the fabric.
"Your equestrian skills are irrelevant, sir," Alaric said, smoothing his cuff. "Your character, however, is on full display."
I pushed my chair back. The wooden legs scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.
Every eye in the room darted toward me. I ignored the wealthy investors. I ignored Chanel, who was practically hyperventilating in her seat. I walked over to the spot right in front of Theo.
My son stared at me, his fingers still digging into the orange Hermès box.
I reached past him. I picked up the gray wool scarf.
The fabric was damp from the spilled ice water. I shook it once, letting the heavy droplets hit the floor. Then, I lifted the cheap wool and wrapped it around my neck. The damp yarn chilled my skin, but I kept my chin high.
"Eleanor," Daniel whispered, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Take that off. Please. Tell him we are a team. Tell him I value you."
I did not look at my husband.
I turned my back to him and faced the butler.
"Alaric," I said.
"Yes, Miss?"
"Thank Grandmother for me."
Alaric offered another deep, respectful bow. "She will be very pleased to hear that, Miss. The estate awaits your return whenever you are ready."
"Stop!" Chanel shrieked.
She vaulted out of her chair, nearly knocking her wine glass onto the floor. Her face flushed a furious, blotchy red. She pointed a shaking finger at me.
"She is lying to you!" Chanel shouted at Alaric. "She is playing you all! She isn't a Whitmore anymore!"
Daniel grabbed Chanel's arm. "Chanel, shut up. You are making it worse."
"No, Daniel, I am saving you!" Chanel yanked her arm free. She glared at me, her chest heaving. "She tricked you into thinking she has power. But she gave it all up!"
I adjusted the wet scarf around my neck. "Did I, Chanel?"
"Yes! You signed the papers!" Chanel yelled.
She spun around and grabbed her designer handbag from the back of her chair. Her manicured fingers tore at the gold clasp.
"You think I didn't do my research?" Chanel sneered, digging frantically inside the leather bag. "When Daniel said he was marrying into nothing, I hired a private investigator. I wanted to know exactly what kind of trash he was tied to."
"Chanel, what are you doing?" Daniel asked, his eyes wide with rising panic.
"Exposing her," Chanel spat.
She ripped a folded, yellowed document from her bag. She marched over to the center of the Thanksgiving table.
She slammed the paper down right next to the roasted turkey.
"This is her official renunciation statement from twenty years ago," Chanel announced, her voice ringing with vicious triumph. "She signed away her inheritance. She signed away her shares. She is absolutely nothing."
