“You have no idea what it takes to maintain a family’s standing,” she said.

“I know exactly what it costs. I have the invoices.”

Her lips tightened. “You were nothing when Thatcher married you.”

“That’s your favorite story about me.”

“It’s the truth.”

“No, Beatrix. The truth is that your son moved into a home I bought, entertained guests through accounts I funded, wore suits paid for by a company I built before I ever met him, and let you speak to me like hired help while you both lived on my work.”