I didn’t kneel. I smiled. “Diane, before I dig through garbage in a dress you picked, can I ask one question?” She rolled her eyes. “Make it quick, charity case.” “Who owns this club?” Silence. Richard’s smile flickered. “Excuse me?” “The Sterling Country Club. Who owns the land, the building, the membership roster you’re so proud of?” Diane scoffed. “The Whitfield Trust, you idiot, and they’d never let someone like —” The maître d’ appeared at my elbow, pale, holding a house phone. “Mrs. Whitfield. Your grandfather is on the line. He saw the lobby cameras.” Every glass on that table stopped mid-air. “Mrs. … Whitfield?” Diane whispered. Two men in charcoal suits walked in behind him — my grandfather’s personal security, the ones who’d flown in for the wedding I hadn’t told the in-laws about yet. “Ma’am,” the taller one said, “your grandfather asks that the individuals who assaulted you be escorted off the property. Their memberships have been revoked as of ninety seconds ago.” Richard shot up. “Assaulted? Nobody touched —” “The ring, sir.” The maître d’ set a velvet box on the table — my actual engagement ring, the eight-carat cushion my grandfather had given Ethan to propose with. “The costume ring Mrs. Diane discarded was a decoy Mrs. Whitfield wears when meeting new family for the first time. A test, I believe she calls it.” I looked at Diane. Her lipstick was trembling. “You failed, Diane. Spectacularly. My grandfather owns the mortgage on your house, the loan on Richard’s dealership, and the scholarship your youngest is on at Yale.” Ethan walked back in, saw the security detail, saw his mother’s face, and simply held the door open. “Mom. Dad. Time to go.” Diane dropped to her knees on the marble, clawing through oyster shells for a ring that had never been real. I stepped over her. “Keep digging, sweetheart. That’s the closest you’ll ever get to real diamonds again.”
