Preston Harrington was neither.
"A teacher," he said, nodding slowly. "So, she spent her whole life making thirty grand a year grading papers in some underfunded school, and her daughter ended up at the CEO's table through some quota program." He raised his glass. "The American dream, ladies and gentlemen. Really brings a tear to the eye."
Walter Reeves' wife, Eleanor, a woman in her sixties with pearl earrings and a Chanel blazer, put her fork down with a soft clink. She looked at her husband. Her eyes said everything. Walter shook his head almost imperceptibly: Don't get involved.
Sloan wasn't done. She leaned across the table and studied Camille's dress, reached out and pinched the fabric of her sleeve between two fingers the way someone inspects a knockoff handbag at a flea market.
"Is this from Target?" she asked sweetly. "No, Walmart."
Camille didn't answer.
"Hm." Sloan pulled her hand back and wiped her fingers on her linen napkin slowly, deliberately, as if she had touched something unclean.
Then she stood up, pushed her chair back, and turned to face the table like a performer taking the stage. She straightened her posture. She folded an imaginary napkin with exaggerated care. She picked up an invisible water glass and raised her pinky with theatrical precision.
She cleared her throat. "Look at me," Sloan said in a flat, mocking tone. "I'm Camille Davis. I'm a senior analyst. I do valuation frameworks." She held her pinky higher. "I went to Columbia... on merit." She paused, then added in a stage whisper, "And I definitely didn't sleep my way to this table."
The table erupted. Preston howled. He pounded the table with his palm. Even Victoria allowed herself a thin, reptilian smile—the most emotion Camille had seen from her all evening. Two guests at the neighboring table turned to watch. A waiter passing with a tray hesitated, then kept walking.
Sloan took a bow: a deep, theatrical bow, hand on her chest like she had just delivered a standing-ovation monologue.
Camille didn't move. She sat perfectly still. Her water glass was three-quarters empty. Her napkin was still on her lap. Her face was a mask. Beneath it, her heart was a fist pounding against her ribs. Her vision blurred for a moment—not tears, just the body's way of saying enough. But she blinked it away. She would not give them that.
Preston leaned toward Walter Reeves. "See that? Not even a flinch. She's either stupid or broken. My money's on both." He turned back to Camille. "Tell you what: I'll give you one more chance. Get on your knees and thank us for letting you sit here this long. Do that, and we'll call it even."
Camille said nothing. Her silence was louder than anything Preston had said all evening.