"I'm your sister," Esme slammed a palm across his face.
Silence cracked the study. A crystal glass tipped over and skittered across the rug. Goddard Allison's hand went to his cheek more out of reflex than shock.
"You have nerve," Goddard said, voice low but deadly clear.
"You sent the men," Esme said. "You watched them take everything. You left me to die."
"Esme," Cole De Santis said from the doorway. His voice tried to hold something like calm and failed. "This is not the place—"
Goddard laughed. "You came to my house to make a scene. You think that slapping me fixes years of bad deals?"
Martina shoved through the crowd of guests, mascara streaked from fake tears. "How dare you, Esme. At Noah's birthday."
Noah sat on his mother's lap, confused, clutching a paper crown. He blinked fast and started to cry when Esme's face twisted.
"I didn't come for apologies," Esme said. "I came for the truth."
Cole stepped forward. "Esme, you know how tenuous things are. You can't—"
Esme pushed past him. Her voice went sharp and small. "You sold me. You sold me for stock options and a promise you never meant to keep."
"Silence," Martina ordered, like a child waving a hand.
A woman Esme had never seen before—some PR director—moved to block her. "Security."
"Don't touch me," Esme told the woman. She let the anger pull sound from her throat. "You all know
