Victor Holloway’s voice cut through the marble hall like a blade. “Call Mercer, Vale, and Roth. Now.”
The assistant vanished down the corridor.
No one moved.
Patricia’s hand trembled around her pearls. Celeste’s glass tilted, spilling champagne onto the Persian rug. Adrian’s smile faltered, then returned — thinner, sharper.
Victor turned to me. “Explain.”
I shifted my son’s weight against my chest. His tiny breath warmed my collarbone. “Every month, you wired support through the family trust. But the trust was redirected.”
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