I was on my feet before I had decided to stand.

The staircase was ten steps from the door.

I took them carefully — one hand on the rail, one hand on my side — and pushed through the door at the bottom before anyone could stop me.

The ballroom had rearranged itself in the time I had been upstairs.

Most of the guests had moved to the edges of the room.

The caterers had stopped serving.

The band was gone.

In the center stood Eleanor, Martin Graves, my father, and a man I didn't recognize — heavyset, in a dark jacket, holding what appeared to be a folded document.

Eleanor saw me come through the door.

Something in her expression shifted.

Not guilt.

Calculation.

"Vivienne," my father said.

"I asked you to stay upstairs."

"I heard what she said."

Eleanor's chin lifted.

"Then you know this conversation involves you."

"What child?" I said.

The man with the document looked at Eleanor.

She gave him a small nod.

He held out the document toward my father.

Martin intercepted it.

He unfolded it, read the first page, and went very still.

"What is it?" I said.

Martin looked at my father.

Something passed between them.

"Martin." My voice came out harder than I intended.

"What is it?"

Martin turned the document toward me.

It was a birth certificate.

Old — the paper had that particular yellowed quality of something that had been folded and unfolded many times.

The name at the top was not mine.

But the father's name was Richard Ashworth.

I read it twice.

Then I looked up at my father.

He was watching me with an expression I had never seen on his face before.

Not shame, exactly.

Something older than shame.

Something that had been carried a long time.

"Vivienne—"

"Is this real?" I said.

"Yes."

The word landed in my chest like something dropped from a height.

"When?" I said.

"Before your mother and I were married.

Before you were born.

I was twenty-six." He paused.

"I didn't know about the child until much later.

By then the mother had moved away and made it clear she didn't want contact.

I respected that.

I shouldn't have."

"Who is it?" I said.

"The child on this certificate — who is it?"

My father looked at the man in the dark jacket.

The man looked at Eleanor.

Eleanor looked at me.

"His name is Thomas," she said.

"He's forty-one years old.

And for the last eight years, he has been Dominic's business partner."

The room went very quiet.

I heard my own breathing.

"Thomas Reeve," Martin said, reading from the document.

He looked at my father.

"Richard.

Did you know?"

"No," my father said.

"I knew Thomas Reeve by name.

Dominic mentioned him when they went into business together.

I had no reason to—" He stopped.

"I didn't know."

"Eleanor did," I said.

It wasn't a question.

Eleanor's expression didn't change.

"I've known for three years.

Since before Dominic brought you home."

"Three years," I said.

"I wanted to understand what I was dealing with," she said.

"Who your father was.

What his connection to Thomas meant for our family."

"And what did you decide it meant?"

"That you were a liability," she said.

"That Dominic had married into a situation that was going to become very complicated."

"Because my father has another child."

"Because your father's other child has been quietly building a case against Ashworth Development for the better part of a decade," Eleanor said.

"And because Dominic is his business partner.

And because when that case becomes public—" She paused.

"It will affect everyone connected to both families."

Martin had his phone out.

He was typing quickly.

My father stood very still.

"What case?" he said.

Eleanor looked at him with something that might, in different circumstances, have been respect.

"You really didn't know," she said.

"What case, Eleanor?"

She unfolded her hands.

"Thomas Reeve has been gathering documentation for a lawsuit.

The same land dispute your daughter's cousin raised tonight, and several others.

He believes Ashworth Development used fraudulent permit applications to acquire properties in the eastern development corridor between 2001 and 2008."

"That's not—" my father started.

"I know," Eleanor said.

"I'm not saying it's true.

I'm saying he believes it.

And I'm saying he has spent eight years building a file." She looked at me.

"And I'm saying that Dominic has had access to Thomas's files for four years."

The silence stretched.

"Dominic knows about this case?" I said.

"Dominic has been helping Thomas build it," Eleanor said.

"Not because he believes in it.

Because Thomas offered him a significant financial stake in the outcome."

I looked at my father.

He was looking at the floor.

His jaw was set.

His hands were at his sides.

"Dad," I said quietly.

He looked up.

"Is there anything in those files that's true?"

He held my gaze for a long moment.

"There are things I'm not proud of," he said.

"From a long time ago.

Before I understood the full impact of decisions I made quickly." He paused.

"Nothing fraudulent.

Nothing criminal.

But things I should have done differently."

"Then we deal with it," I said.

"Vivienne—"

"We deal with it," I said again.

"Properly.

Not hidden.

Not settled quietly in the background.

Properly."

Martin looked up from his phone.

"I can have our litigation team on a call within the hour."

"Do it," my father said.

Eleanor watched this exchange with an expression I couldn't fully read.

"You came here tonight planning to use this," I said to her.

"If things went wrong.

If the ring situation didn't play out the way Chloe wanted."

"I came here tonight prepared," Eleanor said.

"There's a difference."

"Is there."

She looked at me for a long moment.

"You're more like your father than I realized," she said.

"I'll take that," I said.

I turned toward the door that led back to the main corridor.

"Where are you going?" my father said.

"To find Dominic," I said.

"There are things I need to ask him directly.

Tonight.

Before I decide anything."

My father started to speak.

"I know," I said, before he could.

"I know, Dad."

I pushed through the door.

The corridor was dim and quiet.

My footsteps were soft on the carpet.

I found Dominic exactly where I expected to find him — sitting on a bench near the coat check, jacket off, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

He looked up when he heard me coming.

"I need you to tell me about Thomas Reeve," I said.

His face changed completely.

And I knew, from the way the color left it, that Eleanor had told me the truth.