Gerald's mouth opened, then closed. The number hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
Victoria turned to the guards. "Well? I gave you an instruction."
The guards moved, one on each side of Camille's chair.
"Ma'am," the taller one said, "we're going to need you to come with us."
Camille looked up at him. Cream was still drying in her hair. The cut on her hairline had scabbed over into a thin, dark line. Her dress was stained. Her hands were still shaking, but her voice was steady.
"I was invited here," she said. "I'm not leaving."
Preston grabbed the back of her chair and yanked it out from under the table. The legs shrieked against the marble. Camille stumbled forward, catching herself on the table's edge. Silverware clattered. A water glass toppled and rolled off, shattering on the floor.
"You don't have a choice," Preston said. He grabbed her arm—the same arm he had pushed earlier—and pulled her to her feet. His grip was tight enough to leave marks.
"Let go of me!"
"Or what? You'll file a complaint? Call HR?" He laughed. "Sweetheart, I am HR. I'm the reason HR exists at companies like this: to protect people like me from people like you."
He shoved her toward the guards. The taller one caught her by the shoulders—not roughly, but not gently either.
Sloan walked alongside, phone raised, narrating in a low voice like a nature documentary. "And here we see the uninvited guest being escorted from the premises," Sloan said. "Natural selection at its finest."
Victoria stood. She smoothed her dress and addressed the ballroom. Her voice was calm, practiced—the voice of a woman who had given charity speeches and board presentations for forty years.