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It’s made of small pale-blue and clear glass beads strung together on thin wire. Nothing expensive. Nothing worthy of a Vexley room. Under the study lights, the beads catch and scatter tiny beams across my skin.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“A bracelet.”

“I gathered.”

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “It was my mother’s.”

“She gave it to you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“A few years ago.”

I leave out the rest.

That she gave it to me after her diagnosis.

That she pressed it into my hand and told me her mother had given it to her, and her mother before that, and maybe it wasn’t worth anything but some things didn’t have to be expensive to matter. That she smiled when she said I should have it early.

I swallow. “It belonged to my grandmother before her,” I say. “It’s just glass. Nothing fancy. Probably worth five dollars, if that.”

Nathaniel looks at the bracelet for another few seconds and then returns his gaze to me, staring at me for an awkward moment. Finally, he draws in a slow breath and picks up another sheet from his desk. “Stanley enjoys golf,” he says. “Sailing. Shooting. He owns a yacht and talks about it as though he built it with his bare hands. If he mentions Scotland, ask him about Edinburgh. If he mentions sailing, ask whether he prefers the Caribbean or the Mediterranean. If he mentions shooting, say as little as possible. Women aren’t supposed to have opinions on shooting as far as he’s concerned. If he asks about wine, say you’ll have whatever he recommends.”

“I don’t drink much.”

“Then don’t finish the glass.”

“What if he insists?”

“Look at me.”

“What?”

“If Stanley insists on anything you don’t want, look at me. I’ll be in the room. Watching.”

Something in his tone stills me.

I take a careful breath. “Will I have to…you know?”

“No.” The word is quiet.

“I just mean⁠—”

“At no point tonight,” he says, his tone controlled, “will you be expected to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. You will not touch Mr. Stanley beyond a greeting unless you choose to. You will not laugh at anything that makes you uncomfortable. You will not tolerate wandering hands, private invitations, or comments that cross a line. If he forgets himself, you will look at me, and I will remind him.”

My pulse stumbles. “You sound angry.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because there are rules,” he says.

I glance at the iron key on the wall.