"—like a good sport," he finished.
Sloan checked her phone. "No tears yet. I'm getting bored. Preston, you're losing the bet."
Preston set his glass down. The playfulness drained from his face like water from a cracked glass. Something harder took its place. Something uglier.
"Then maybe," he said quietly, "we need to raise the stakes."
Preston stood up. His chair scraped against the marble floor; the sound cut through the jazz music like a knife across glass. He picked up his bourbon and walked around the table slowly, each step deliberate. He stopped directly behind Camille's chair. She could smell the whiskey on his breath before he spoke.
"You know what your problem is?" he said, leaning down until his mouth was inches from her ear. "You don't know when to quit. Any other girl would have taken the hint by now. Would have gathered her little Target purse and shuffled out the door. But not you."
He placed his hand on the back of her chair; his knuckles brushed against her shoulder.
"You just sit there with that look on your face, like you think you're better than us."
Camille kept her eyes forward. "I'm just trying to enjoy the evening."
"Enjoy the evening?" Preston laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. "She's trying to enjoy the evening, Mother. At our table. With our champagne. Breathing our air."
Victoria set down her glass. "Preston, darling, don't waste your energy on someone who clearly doesn't understand social cues. Some people are simply too dense to know when they're not wanted."
"Or too stubborn," Sloan added, angling her phone for a better shot. The red light was still on, still recording.
Preston straightened up. He walked to the dessert display at the center of the table: a three-tiered tower of pastries, chocolate truffles, and a large vanilla cake platter with cream frosting piled high. He picked up the cake platter with both hands, studied it, then looked at Camille.