"What the hell is that smell? Oh, it's you, black beggar."
"Excuse me. I have an invitation."
"Liar. Who would invite a black woman?"
Sloan aimed her phone at Camille. "First time I've seen one. That's so funny."
Victoria smiled. "Filthy black people only know how to cause trouble. Preston, teach her a lesson."
Preston grabbed Camille's braids and slammed her face into the cake platter. Frosting burst across the linen.
Sloan zoomed in, laughing.
"Stay down." He pressed her head harder. "That's where you belong."
Victoria sipped her champagne. "Next time, stay out. Understand, you filthy bitch?"
Camille's fingers clutched the tablecloth. Cream dripped from her eyelashes. She pulled herself up slowly, shaking, silent. Not one of them knew whose daughter they just made their most expensive mistake with.
Three hours before that moment, Camille Fletcher stood in front of her bathroom mirror. She adjusted the collar of her black dress: simple, elegant, nothing flashy. Tonight was the Fletcher Global Industries annual gala—the biggest night on her father's corporate calendar.
Raymond Fletcher, CEO of Fletcher Global, had called her that morning. "I want you there tonight, sweetheart. Sit at my table. I'll introduce you to a few people."
"Dad, you know I don't use your name at work."
"I know, and I respect that. But tonight, just be my daughter."