“Sir,” Mr. Wilson said quietly, “you need to step back.”
Darnell stared at him. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” Mr. Wilson said. “I do.”
It was the way he said it that made several guests turn fully toward them. Not with fear. Not with respect. With judgment.
Before Darnell could answer, the double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.
A man in his sixties entered with three uniformed security officers behind him. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, and the calm expression of someone who had built a career delivering devastating news with perfect manners. His silver hair was neatly combed back. His eyes moved once across the room, taking in Lenora on the floor, Darnell standing over her, Candace beside him, Beverly near the champagne table, and the broken chain in Lenora’s hand.
His face did not change.
But the air did.
