A Montblanc diamond-encrusted fountain pen, a gift from a European CEO, worth about ten thousand dollars. I’d left it out after signing some trust documents.

Beatrice picked it up, scoffing. “Goodness. You buy cheap knock-offs of luxury pens? How pathetic. Trying to pretend you’re something you’re not.”

She dropped it with a clatter. “Listen to me, Eleanor. Liam is having a hard day — some arrogant supplier is trying to ruin his business, and he needs capital. You are going to sign your little scrap-metal property over to us today. Liam is offering fifty thousand. Take the charity before he rescinds it.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said, keeping my face blank.

“Don’t think. Just do,” she sneered, turning on her heel.

That evening, Clara came over. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red.