“My grandson,” Rosalind kept saying, her voice bright and carrying over the clink of glasses.

“The future of the Prewitt line.”

Odette played her role flawlessly.

She’d chosen a modest dress, high-necked, nothing that could be called grasping.

She poured wine for the aunts.

She kept a hand on Theo’s shoulder and wore the soft, tired, grateful smile of a woman who could not believe her good fortune, and every person at that table read it the way she meant them to.

The only one who didn’t look the part was Vaughn.