Chapter 8

The statement went out at 2:00 p.m. that afternoon.

It was short, under 500 words, posted on the Ashford Dynamics website and distributed to every major outlet in the country. It was signed by Marcus Ashford, in his capacity as interim CEO of the company following a board meeting where his mother had been voted out of the chair.

Sylvie read it in her apartment, sitting on her couch with the afternoon sun falling through the blinds. The words were careful, measured. They admitted that on the occasion of a family dinner, inappropriate remarks had been made. They acknowledged that the actions of a family member had caused offense. They expressed regret.

They didn't name her. They didn't describe the wine, or the laughter, or the hundred thousand dollars. They left enough room for the world to fill in the gaps, to imagine the scene for themselves.

It was honest enough. It was a start.

She set down her phone, letting the message sink in. She should have felt triumphant. She had faced down a dynasty, brought them to their knees, made them admit their sins in public. She had walked out of that room with her head held high and emerged with everything she wanted.

But sitting there, in the quiet afternoon, she didn't feel triumphant. She felt tired. Deeply, bone-achingly tired.

She closed her eyes and saw it all again: Marguerite's cold smile, Daniel's laugh, the wine hitting her face, the silence that followed. The pieces rattled around in her head, rearranging themselves into a shape she hadn't expected.

The third time. That had been her line. The pattern she had refused to let continue.

But what if the pattern wasn't just about her? What if the Ashford family had been doing this for generations, to every outsider who was unlucky enough to marry in? What if there were dozens of other women, and men, who had been humiliated in that dining room, who had paid the price of admission, who had broken?

She reached for her phone and dialed Iris.

"Iris. I need you to do something."

"What is it?"