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For a second, I don’t understand the sentence. Not because it’s complicated. Obviously a person can eat a hell of a lot of salad before she starts to gain weight. But because it’s so openly rude that my brain refuses to accept anyone has said it in a ballroom while wearing a tuxedo.

Heat climbs up my neck, across my cheeks, and behind my eyes.

Everyone at the table heard. I know they heard. But no one reacts.

I look down at my plate. My salad is half eaten.

I want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that would make Hazel proud and Mr. Stanley shrink in his chair.

But words tangle in my throat.

So I set my fork down, reach for my wine, and take a sip.

Nathaniel moves beside me. Just a subtle shift. “How much Ella eats is her own business,” he says.

His voice is calm.

Mr. Stanley turns toward him with a faint scowl. “Stay out of it, Vexley.”

Nathaniel sets his fork beside his plate. That somehow scares me more than if he slammed it down.

“You’re welcome to leave the gala if you find basic courtesy too demanding.”

Mr. Stanley’s face darkens. “I beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg. I heard you.”

My breath catches.

No.

No, no, no.

This isn’t good.

Arthur Vexley watches from across the table. I can’t read his expression. Is he angry? Pleased? Apathetic?

Mr. Stanley leans back in his chair, jowls tightening. “You might want to reconsider your tone. The Vexley Foundation benefits a great deal from my donations.”

Nathaniel’s smile appears. Except it’s not a smile. Not really. “If you want to take money away from the people our foundation helps because a woman ate salad in your presence, then by all means, Quenton. Let that hang on your conscience.”

Something flickers in Mr. Stanley’s eyes. “Oh, come now,” he says. “Let’s not insult each other by pretending the foundation is merely about helping the poor. You just make sure everything stays on schedule.”

Nathaniel’s expression doesn’t change. But something about him does. It’s almost imperceptible, but I feel it against my skin.

“Careful,” Nathaniel says softly.

Mr. Stanley’s smile turns ugly. “Careful? I’m only saying that⁠—”

“Mr. Stanley,” I say.

The words come out louder than I intend.

Not a shout.

But sharp enough that his eyebrows shoot up.

My heart pounds against my ribs. “Do you have any children?” I ask.