"No?" Preston tilted his head. "Suit yourself. The night's still young."
Victoria reached for her phone. She held it up and snapped a photo of Camille, not even trying to hide it. Her manicured thumbs moved across the screen. She typed a message to the family group chat. Camille could see the preview flash across Victoria's screen from across the table: her own face sitting among people who despised her, with a caption that read: The help thinks she belongs here.
Camille looked away. Her chest was tight. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. The room felt smaller. The chandelier light felt hotter. But she breathed: in through the nose, out through the mouth, the way her mother had taught her when the kids at school said things that left bruises words couldn't see.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She glanced at the screen under the table: Dad: Board call running long. Almost done. Wait for me, sweetheart. I'll be there soon.
She typed back one word: Okay.
She didn't type what she wanted to type. She didn't type, "Please hurry." She didn't type, "They're hurting me." She put the phone away and straightened her spine.
From across the ballroom, Gerald Townsend had been watching. He had seen Preston lean forward. He had seen Sloan stand up and perform her little show. He had seen Victoria take the photo. His stomach turned. He set his glass down and walked toward the table.
He bent down near Victoria's ear. His voice was low, but firm. "Mrs. Harrington, I should mention Ms. Davis is a valued member of our team. She's here tonight as a personal guest of the CEO."
Victoria didn't even look at him. She sipped her champagne and said without turning her head, "A personal guest? Her?" She glanced at Camille with the same expression one might give a stain on a tablecloth. "The CEO must have very low standards for company. Now, please, you're interrupting our evening. Shoo."
Gerald opened his mouth to say more. Then he looked at Walter and Thomas: silent, frozen, eyes down, complicit in their cowardice. He closed his mouth and walked away. His hands were shaking. He pulled out his phone and called Raymond directly. No answer. Voicemail.
He texted: Raymond, call me now. It's about Camille. It's urgent.
Back at the table, Preston was pouring himself another bourbon—his fourth. His cheeks were flushed and his voice was getting louder, loud enough that people three tables away could hear fragments. He was past the point of caring.
"You know what I admire about you, Camille?" He swirled his glass. "Your commitment to the bit. Most people in your situation would have left by now. Would have run crying to the bathroom. But here you are, still sitting, still taking it." He paused, smiled—a wolf smile. "Like a good little—"
He stopped himself. Let the silence fill in the word he didn't say. The word hung in the air like smoke.