Richard summoned me home for a family dinner and seated me between the two men who had lied about destroying one another.
That was how I knew the evening would be war.
My father’s dining room had always been designed to make people feel smaller. The ceiling rose too high. The chandelier glittered like a threat. The table was long enough to turn ordinary conversation into negotiation. Silverware sat in perfect rows beside porcelain plates, and crystal glasses caught the light with the kind of quiet arrogance money always developed when left alone too long.
I had grown up in that room.
I had celebrated birthdays there, eaten silent meals after school awards, listened to my father take business calls between courses and watched him turn affection into a performance timed around guests. My
