Ethan spun around to face the mahogany desk, his face pale under the chandelier.

“You’re stripping my corporate role over an eight-year-old clerical dispute?”

“You faked a family tragedy to cover up a personal desertion,” Richard said, standing up behind the desk.

“That isn’t a clerical dispute.

That’s a failure of character.”

I walked past Ethan without looking back and went into the side parlor where my sons were waiting.

Sam was sitting on a low velvet bench, his wire-rim glasses perched on his nose as he worked through a column of math problems in his notebook.

“Sam,” I said gently, touching his shoulder.