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That means nothing. Or everything. With my father, vague words are rarely empty. They’re locked doors.

“Is he all right?” I ask.

“I said something came up.”

“His plus-one?” I ask.

“Also not attending.”

Delaney Cross.

I don’t say her name.

The staff has whispered it. The board has noticed it. Samson’s temper has sharpened around it. I accused Samson of having a weakness. That she was his weakness.

“You’ll need to rearrange our table,” my father continues.

Now I’m an event planner. “I’ll handle it.”

“I know.” He ends the call.

The line goes dead.

For a moment, I stand there, staring at the dark screen.

Something came up.

With Samson, something coming up usually means either blood or rage.

I could call him.

I should call him.

But Samson won’t answer if he doesn’t want to be found.

So I do what I do. I fix the visible problem. I cross the ballroom to Table One.

Eight seats.

Quenton Stanley.

Two board members and their wives.

Samson Vexley.

Delaney Cross.

Nathaniel Vexley.

And now⁠—

I stop.

Ella Hart.

Her place card is already there.

White card. Black calligraphy.