Sharp.
Real.
Peter looked surprised by it.
So did I.
Then I opened the door.
“We have four hundred guests waiting.”
“And the refinancing?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Peter started to object.
I raised one finger.
“You spent months assuming five years of my life belonged to a contract.
You can survive one afternoon without an answer.”
He closed his mouth.
We returned to the ballroom together.
The room erupted when we entered.
Glasses rose.
Cameras flashed.
My mother hurried toward us, searching my face with the anxious precision only mothers possess.
“You’re all right?” she whispered.
“I’m fine.”
Her gaze shifted toward my father, who had followed us in carrying the folder.
She understood immediately.
“He told you.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
Her lips pressed together.
“That the assets were being transferred, yes.
Not that your father intended to reveal it today.”
I laughed softly.
“Apparently everyone knew pieces of my life except me.”
Pain crossed her face.
“You’re right.”
No defense.
No explanation.
That mattered.
Across the ballroom, Peter’s board members were trying to catch his attention.
He ignored them and remained beside me.
“You should go,” I said.
“To them?”
“Yes.”
“I’d rather not leave you thinking I’m fleeing to save my company.”
“You are trying to save your company.”
“True.”
There was something almost disarming about his willingness to admit it now.
He lowered his voice.
“But I’m also trying not to make another assumption about what you want.”
I studied him.
“Go speak to your board.”
He nodded once.
Then he went.
For the next hour, I watched Peter Strickland do something I had not expected.
He stopped performing.
He spoke quietly with his board.
He pulled George into the conversation.
He made no attempt to take the folder from my father.
He did not send a lawyer to pressure me.
