Richard stepped forward with a forced laugh. “Mother, surely you don’t mean what you just said. The trust has always been structured around the Whitmore descendants.”

Margaret turned to him. “It still is.”

“Elena married into the family.”

“She married my grandson,” Margaret answered. “She raised my great-granddaughter with grace while most of you treated her as hired help. And when I collapsed in my winter house last February, it was Elena who caught the signs of sepsis before my own private physician did. She argued with him, called the ambulance herself, rode with me, and stayed awake thirty-six hours while my organs tried to fail.”

“Margaret, you don’t have to—” Elena began.

“I do,” Margaret said. “Because silence is how cruelty becomes tradition.”