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"""""“You should have signed it.”

Vivian Vale’s fingers tightened on Eleanor Ashcroft’s shoulder as her other hand rose.

Eleanor recoiled into the black electric wheelchair, her silver head lowering beneath the edge of her cashmere wrap. Her right hand hovered near the joystick, trembling too hard to grasp it. Vivian’s palm started down.

It never reached her.

Claire Mercer caught Vivian’s wrist with both hands. The impact jarred her shoulders, but she held on. For half a second, the three women remained locked beneath the chandelier: Vivian standing over them in black silk and gold earrings, Claire breathless in her beige uniform, Eleanor folded inward as though trying to disappear.

Vivian stared at the young assistant’s hands.

“Let go.”

Claire pushed the arm away and stepped between them. Her knees felt unreliable, but she planted her low white shoes on the cream marble and widened her stance.

“Do not touch her again.”

Behind her, Eleanor drew one shallow breath, then another.

Vivian leaned sideways, attempting to look around Claire. “You have no idea what she’s doing to this family.”

“I know what you were doing.”

“You saw two seconds.”

“I saw enough.”

The sentence sounded steadier than Claire felt. Her pulse beat painfully beneath her white collar. Vivian’s expression had lost none of its contempt, but anxiety had entered it now, small and sharp, tightening the skin around her eyes.

Eleanor’s fingers finally touched the joystick.

The wheelchair hummed and rolled backward only a few inches before her hand froze. One wheel turned slightly on the marble, leaving her angled toward the console table and its vase of white flowers. Her breathing remained shallow. Her eyes stayed shut.

Claire glanced back at her.

That moment was all Vivian needed. She moved forward, but Claire turned again and blocked her.

“Someone needs to know what you did,” Claire said.

Vivian’s lips parted. No reply came.

A low wooden groan traveled through the foyer.

The carved double doors opened inward, allowing a blade of cold daylight to stretch across the marble. Adrian Ashcroft entered without haste, charcoal suit immaculate, dark hair swept back from an unreadable face. He closed neither door behind him.

All three women turned.

He took in Eleanor’s displaced wheelchair, Claire standing before her, and Vivian’s reddened wrist. His gaze settled nowhere for long.

“Adrian,” Vivian said, too quickly. “Thank God.”

He crossed the foyer at a measured pace. His polished shoes struck the floor with quiet, even taps.

Claire did not move aside.

When he reached her, Adrian placed one hand around her forearm.

His grip was firm enough to stop her from stepping forward.

Claire looked down at his hand. Eleanor opened her eyes behind her. Vivian exhaled, and for the first time since Claire had entered the foyer, satisfaction returned to her face.

Then Adrian’s thumb shifted once against Claire’s sleeve—not tightening, not releasing.

He looked past her.

Directly at Vivian.

“Let her finish.”

Vivian’s satisfaction collapsed. Her chin drew back, and one gold earring moved as she swallowed.

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Behind Claire, Eleanor slowly lifted her face.

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