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“I’ve made a decision,” I say.
The room stills.
That’s one of the few pleasures of being a Vexley. Men twice my age with decades of money and power still go quiet when I use that tone. They hear my father in it.
So do I. Which bothers the hell out of me.
I turn the tablet so the screen faces the board. “Ella Hart will take the vacant seat beside Mr. Stanley tonight.”
“Who exactly is Ella Hart?” Whitcomb asks.
“She’s a young housemaid in the Vexley employ,” I say.
“A maid?” From Ellery.
“Absolutely not.” From a female board member whose name escapes me.
“Mr. Vexley, surely you can’t be serious.” From Conrad Bainsworth, a thorn in everyone’s side. “Quenton Stanley will never accept a housemaid as his companion.”
I keep leaning against the door.
It’s almost enjoyable.
Almost.
Bradley Whitcomb is the first to regain something close to composure. He removes his glasses, polishes them with a cloth from his breast pocket, and looks at me as if I’ve suggested adding his kidney to the silent auction.
“Mr. Vexley,” he says, “I understand your desire to solve this efficiently, but bringing domestic staff into an event of this caliber raises certain concerns.”
“Such as?”
Martin Ellery clears his throat. “Optics, for one.”
“Optics,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“The optics of a beautiful young woman in an evening gown sitting beside an elderly donor at a charity gala?”
“The optics of a maid,” Whitcomb says.
I tap one finger against the tablet. “Ella Hart was hired to work inside Vexley House.”
“Yes,” Martin says. “As staff.”
“By Arthur Vexley himself.”
Silence, then.
Good.
My father’s name holds space everywhere. To these board members, Arthur Vexley is a king in tailored Armani.
I let the silence stretch. Until—
“My father doesn’t allow just anyone into Vexley House.”
No one argues. They can’t. They all know it’s true.
