"You pushed her down the stairs!" a man shouted as the club's lights flared.
"She hit her head," another voice added, sharp and urgent.
"Security!" someone barked.
Everlee Payne didn't move at first. Hands in the pockets of her coat, heels planted. She watched Katharine on the floor—perfect dress ruined, face pale, one hand pressed to her temple—while a dozen phones tilted toward the scene like a chorus of accusatory eyes.
"Get up, Katharine," Katharine said, voice thin and theatrical. "I was pushed."
"By Everlee," an aide screamed toward the cluster by the velvet rope. "She shoved her. I saw it."
"Stop lying," Everlee said. Her voice was low. It cut through the chatter.
"She shoved you?" a camera-man asked, breathless, already streaming.
A woman beside him shoved Everlee. The slap was hard enough to send a ringing through the room and loud enough for the live feed.
"Watch your hands," Everlee said. She didn't flinch.
"You're all right, dear?" Katharine wailed, and the sound changed the room. Sympathy snapped into a headline.
"Everlee Payne!" someone yelled. "Arrest her!"
"Not yet," Canon Greene said, his voice controlled, even from the crowd. He stood framed by the VIP entrance like a judge about to call a verdict. Phones turned toward him. The engagement announcement he'd be photographed for in a week lay like a raw bruise under his collarbone; the cameras didn't miss how his jaw tightened when he looked at Everlee
