Camden fixed his eyes on her.
Then me.
Then Margaret again.
“How substantial?”
I watched him calculate.
Not heartbreak at all.
Not a sense of betrayal.
Only arithmetic.
August’s expression grew stern.
“Substantial enough that you should have learned who owns the company before deciding who deserves to be humiliated inside it.”
The guests remained hushed.
I wanted triumph, some clean satisfaction in finally seeing the truth revealed before those who had dismissed me.
Instead, I missed my mother, whose restraint had shaped the way I thought about money and influence.
It caught me off guard.
I’d spent the evening bracing for Camden.
His deception.
His spectacle.
His viciousness.
But the name Hart Legacy Trust returned me to a hospital room three years ago.
My mother, Vivian Hart, was dying then.
She’d never behaved like someone rich.
She kept one silver Volvo fourteen years, clipped unnecessary grocery coupons, preferred diners to fine restaurants, and switched off lights even when others remained in the room.
