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The applause began then.
Real applause.
Not pity. Not manners.
Recognition.
It started with Marjorie Bell. Then the young women at the foundation table. Then several donors. Then someone near the back stood up, and suddenly people were rising all over the ballroom.
Grant looked around in disbelief.
Sloane covered her face.
Eleanor Mercer sat frozen in her chair, diamonds blazing at her throat like ice over a grave.
Ethan stood near the stage, watching me with an expression I could not read. Later, he would tell me he had never been prouder. Later, much later, when the divorce was final and the newspapers had stopped calling and the internet had found a new queen to crown for twenty-four hours, he would ask me to dinner in a small restaurant in Brooklyn where nobody cared about last names.
But that came later.
This night still belonged to the woman I had been trying to rescue.
Grant stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Vivian, I love you.”
I almost admired the audacity.
“No,” I said. “You love being forgiven by me. There’s a difference.”
His eyes filled.
Maybe with tears.
Maybe with fear.
Men cry beautifully when consequences arrive wearing heels.
“I made mistakes,” he said.
“You made choices.”
“I can fix this.”
“You can explain it to the auditors.”
His face hardened then, just for a second. The mask slipped, and there he was—the man who had thought cruelty was sophistication because no one had ever made him pay cash for it.
“You’ll regret this,” he said.
I smiled.
“Grant, you are the regret.”
That line went viral too.
Not because it was clever.