I started down the stairs.
Celeste saw me and smiled, certain I would save her from embarrassment. “Adrian, darling, your mother slipped.”
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My mother looked at me. She did not ask for help. She never had. Not when we slept above a laundromat with rats in the walls. Not when she cleaned offices at night so I could study. Not when men with gold watches told me boys from our neighborhood did not become owners.
I reached the fountain, removed my jacket, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
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“Did you slip?” I asked.
“No,” she said softly.
The room fell silent.
Celeste rolled her eyes. “She was crowding the photographs. Honestly, Adrian, this party cost three million dollars. Standards matter.”
I met her eyes and felt something in me turn cold.
Three hours earlier, I had signed documents creating a ten-million-dollar trust in Celeste’s name, contingent on our marriage. It was meant to ensure her independence, though she had called it “a charming beginning.” The papers were still in my attorney’s secure portal.
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I took out my phone.
Celeste brightened, assuming I was arranging damage control.
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Instead, I messaged my chief counsel: Liquidate the trust assets. Revoke her interest. Begin full audit of Monroe Holdings. Quietly.
His reply came in twelve seconds.
Done.
