Emerson’s head snapped toward him.
“What?”
“I canceled the wire an hour ago,” Rosalind said.
Portia’s champagne glass slipped and shattered on the floor.
“You can’t do that!”
“She can, and she did,” Edmund said evenly.
“The funds belong entirely to Mrs.
Ashworth.
The trust was never finalized.”
Portia’s face twisted into something ugly — no longer the elegant bride from the society pages, but a cornered thing whose mask had been pulled away.