Beverly seemed to realize her mistake and began to cry at once, pressing a jeweled hand to her chest.
“I mean, I didn’t know your history. I didn’t know what you’d been through. Had I known—”
“You knew I was a person,” Lenora said.
Beverly went still.
“You knew I had feelings. You knew I had lost my grandparents. You knew I was alone. You knew I was your son’s wife. You knew enough.”
Beverly’s tears trembled on her lashes, but they no longer looked moving. They looked strategic.
Vincent stepped forward with a leather folder in his hand.
“Miss Harrison,” he said gently, “do you want to continue this in private?”
Lenora looked around the ballroom.
The guests stared back at her. Some with pity. Some with guilt. Some with curiosity that felt too close to hunger. These were people who donated large checks to causes they did not have to touch. People who gave speeches about compassion, then watched a woman fall and waited for someone else to act.
