Harris finally moves, straightening in his chair as the casual ease disappears entirely. “Rowan,” he says carefully, his voice carrying through the ballroom with just enough weight to reclaim attention, “this is a serious accusation.”
My pulse hits once in my temple, and the word echoes in my head a fraction of a second longer than it should.
Serious.
They dragged her past into the open without warning, turned her mental health into a spectacle in front of a table full of attorneys, and now we’re discussing seriousness.
Something that feels dangerously close to laughter presses against the back of my throat.
“Yes.”
The word leaves me flatly.
Harris studies me, his gaze narrowing slightly as something behind it recalibrates. “You’re suggesting we violated confidentiality statutes.”
I hold his gaze, my eyes not leaving his for a second.
“You’re suggesting,” he repeats.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not suggesting.”
I lift one hand, gesturing toward the screen behind me without turning, the residual glow still illuminating the time stamps, and forwarded messages.
“I’m demonstrating.”
Masden shifts beside Harris, the movement tighter this time. “This could have been handled privately.”
For a second, I don’t respond. I just look at him, my hands tightening slightly against the edge of the podium as my fingertips press into the wood.
Privately.
That’s rich, considering there was nothing private about what they did this afternoon to Tessa. They dissected her past like it was a case file instead of a person sitting three feet awayfrom them, and they watched her try to hold herself together while Camden sat there and enjoyed it.
And the worst part was that she believed them, believed she deserved it. Even after everything she told me this morning with the gray days that swallowed hours of her life, the mornings she couldn’t get out of bed, and about the way she thought asking for help made her weak.
My teeth press together, the muscle in my jaw tightening as something colder settles into place.
“You chose not to.”
The words cut through the space before Masden can continue.
I reach forward and close the file on the laptop.
I lift my head and look directly at the tables, at Harris, at Masden, at Camden, as the anger in my chest sharpens.
“You embarrassed the wrong woman.”
Several associates drop their gaze to their plates, suddenly very interested in nothing.
“And the next time any of you decide to destroy someone’s reputation,” I continue, my voice steady as my eyes shift briefly to Camden, just long enough to make the point land, “make sure you have jurisdiction.”
The microphone hums softly in the silence that follows. No one laughs. No one even breathes loudly.
I have enough in my pocket to dismantle three careers before dessert ever touches the table.
But this was never about them.
It was about Tessa—about the look on her face when she realized they’d been digging through her past, about the way she left like she was the problem.
