Preston looked at Sloan's phone. "Play it back," he said.
Sloan replayed the video: the slam, the frosting, the sound. Preston watched it twice, grinning wider each time.
"That's going in the family archives," he said.
Victoria crossed her legs and adjusted her bracelet. "A shame, really. All that cake gone to waste on someone who won't even cry properly."
A server appeared: Nina Cole, twenty-two years old, working her third gala event to pay for nursing school. She had watched the whole thing from the kitchen entrance, frozen. Now she moved. She grabbed a clean towel from the service station and walked to the table. Her hands were shaking, but she didn't stop.
She bent down next to Camille and gently wiped the cream from her face. Her touch was careful, tender—the first act of kindness Camille had received all evening.
"Are you okay?" Nina whispered.
Camille looked at her. For the first time, her mask cracked—just slightly, just for a moment. A tremor passed through her lower lip. Then she sealed it shut.
"Thank you," Camille whispered back.
Nina pressed the towel into Camille's hand. "Don't let them see you break."
Preston saw the exchange. He laughed. "Oh, look. The help is helping the help. Adorable. Someone get a photo."
Sloan already had.
From across the ballroom, Gerald Townsend was already moving. He had seen Preston stand up. He had seen him walk behind Camille's chair. He had called out, but the jazz band had drowned his voice. Then he saw the slam, the frosting, the frozen crowd, the blood on Camille's hairline.