"Get out—no one wants a weeping trophy," Quincy snapped, wine glass sloshing against his palm. "Say that again," I said. "Why would I?" Quincy smiled thinly. "I said it once with taste. That's all this was ever meant to be." "You humiliated me in front of everyone," I said. I didn't whisper. I didn't beg. I set my hand on the table where my phone buzzed with notifications, then I pulled my engagement ring and held it up so everyone could see. Iris leaned back, hand near her mouth, red lipstick already smudged like a stain she was proud of. "Ooo, dramatic," she cooed. "Did someone cry?" "She cried," Quincy said, very pleased with himself. "She cried when we announced it. She cried when we talked about the wedding. She cried when I left her for someone who isn't wearing last season." A laugh from the table to my right tried to be polite and landed flat. "Is this a private tragedy or a performance?" Brennan said. His voice came low and raw. "Because it reads as cruelty." Quincy flinched like he'd been slapped. He covered with a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Brennan, mind your mouth." "Try," Brennan said, and he didn't try. "You made a show. That makes you the villain, not her." Voices rose; not all were hostile, but the room shifted. The Lanchester hummed with cameras and status signals, and suddenly the small, sharp sound of my