The room came apart. Board members scrambled away from Pierce. Guests pulled out their phones. Vanessa’s mother clutched her pearls hard enough to snap the string, sending beads bouncing across the marble.

“You set me up!” Vanessa hissed, her polish gone entirely.

“No, Vanessa,” I said into the microphone. “I simply sat down. And you showed me exactly who you were.”

She spun around hunting for someone to blame and pointed a shaking finger toward the back of the room, where Clara stood near the service doors in a plain black dress — trembling, but not bowed.

“It was her!” Vanessa screamed. “That little servant poisoned you against me! She planted those papers!”

I looked at Vanessa. Then, slowly, I reached down to the wheels of my chair.