As Bea walked back with a crystal vase, Kendall leaned toward Danika and murmured in a tone she believed was private.

“This is exactly why you don’t give the cleaning staff too much leeway.

They start thinking they own the place.”

Wescott’s eyes came up and locked onto hers.

Bea went still, the vase held tight in both hands.

She didn’t look wounded for her own sake so much as weighed down by something older — the accumulated hurt of the same remark muttered in corridors and elevators and supply closets, by people who believed dignity belonged only to those with titles.