There was no legitimate way for Amber to know the Westbridge space was even available, which meant Garnet had told her, which meant Garnet had been discussing my confidential business dealings with his wife as though they were his to discuss.

And the only place the details of that negotiation existed in written form was in the locked files of my home study.

I sat there in my dinner jacket, a glass of champagne going warm in my hand, and I understood that my son had most likely been through my private papers.

The glue on the chair had been an act of spite, and spite I could have managed, could even, in time, have forgiven.

But this was not spite.