The gown that had been a declaration of her place beside my husband an hour earlier had become, under the stage lights, a kind of marker, the one unmissable point of color in a room that had just learned what she was.

I did not pity her.

But I understood, watching her understand it, exactly how fast a costume can turn into a uniform you cannot take off.

“You own Keystone?” Damian’s voice cracked across the quiet, too loud, disbelieving.

“You — ”

“Mr.

Merrick.” Malcolm’s voice had gone flat and hard.

“You will wait.”