He turned away from us when he answered.

His voice dropped so low I could only catch fragments.

*Not now.

I said not now.

She — yes, she knows.*

He ended the call and stood with his back to us for a moment longer than he needed to.

When he turned around, the fear was gone.

In its place was something I recognized from two years of watching him across dinner tables and boardroom lobbies — the look he wore when he'd decided to change the terms.

"That was my attorney," he said.

"On your wedding night," my father said.

"I keep him on retainer." Owen straightened his jacket.

"Here's what I think we should do.

We're both reasonable people.

The recording is — it sounds bad.

I understand that.

But recordings taken without consent have limited legal standing, and anything my mother said in a private conversation—"

"Owen," I said.

"—is not a binding statement of intent.

What I'm saying is, we can handle this quietly.

The condo stays in your name.

I'll have my attorney draw up a postnuptial agreement that protects your interest in the property.

We move forward.

Nobody has to know anything happened tonight."

I looked at him for a long moment.

"Tell me about Delia Marsh," I said again.

He exhaled slowly.

"She was someone I was involved with.

It ended badly.

There were financial disagreements.

It was resolved."

"She lost her lease."

"She was on my lease.

When the relationship ended, the lease reverted.

That's not a scheme, Mara, that's a breakup with paperwork."

"And the woman before her?" my father said.

Owen's head turned.

"Excuse me?"

My father reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a folded sheet of paper.

He set it on the table next to my phone.

Owen did not pick it up.

"Her name was Cassandra Webb," my father said.

"Thirty-one years old.

You were together for two years.

She co-signed a business loan with you for a property development in Charleston.

You dissolved the partnership six weeks after the loan cleared.

She spent three years paying it back alone."

The muscle in Owen's jaw moved.

"Your father gave me her name," my father said.

"She gave me the documents."

"My father," Owen said slowly, "had no right—"

"Your father," my father said, "is ashamed of you."

The room held that sentence for a moment.

Owen picked up the folded paper.

He opened it.

His eyes moved across whatever was on it and then he set it back down without refolding it.

"This is old," he said.

"This doesn't—"

"There's a third name on that page," my father said.

"I won't say it out loud because she asked me not to.

But she's prepared to make a statement."

Owen looked at me.

"Mara.

Listen to me.

Whatever my father told your father, he is not a reliable source.

He and I have had serious disagreements about the way I conduct my business.

He came to your father because he wanted to damage me.

That's all this is."

"He came to me," my father said, "because he was trying to protect my daughter from his own son.

That is not a man trying to cause damage.

That is a man who is ashamed."

Owen was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "What do you want?

Specifically.

Tell me what number makes this go away."

My hand tightened around my phone.

"I don't want a number," I said.

"Everyone wants a number."

"I want an annulment," I said.

"I want it filed before the end of this week.

I want the condo deed confirmed in my name with no claim attached.

And I want you to stay away from my family."

Owen laughed.

It was a short, hard sound.

"An annulment.

On what grounds?

We've done nothing wrong legally.

You have a recording of a private conversation and a stack of old paperwork about relationships that ended years ago.

No judge is going to—"

"I also have your father," I said.

Owen stopped laughing.

"He called me an hour ago," I said.

"While you were downstairs.

He said he would testify.

He said he has emails."

The silence that followed was different from the others.

It had weight to it.

Owen looked at the door.

He looked at the champagne glasses.

He looked at the wedding ring on my finger.

"You're bluffing," he said.

I picked up my phone and turned the screen toward him.

The call log showed his father's name.

Forty-three minutes ago.

Eleven minutes long.

Owen read it.

He set his jaw.

He looked at the ceiling.

"Fine," he said at last.

The word came out like something being dropped from a height.

"Fine.

I'll have my attorney contact yours in the morning."

"Tonight," my father said.

"It's eleven o'clock—"

"Tonight," my father said again.

"Or we go downstairs together and Mara plays that recording for your mother in front of everyone she invited."

Owen looked at my father for a long moment.

Then he took out his phone.

He made the call.

I sat in the chair by the window and listened to him arrange his own undoing in a quiet, controlled voice, and I thought about Delia Marsh paying back a loan she never should have signed.

I thought about Cassandra Webb.

I thought about the third name my father hadn't said out loud.

I thought about how many women there might be whose names I would never know.

When Owen ended the call, he set the phone on the dresser and looked at me with something that might have been, in another life, respect.

"My attorney will call yours at seven," he said.

"I want the recording deleted."

"No," I said.

He nodded once, as if he'd expected that answer, and walked to the door.

His hand was on the handle when I spoke again.

"Owen."

He paused but didn't turn around.

"Your father loves you," I said.

"That's why he did this.

Not to damage you.

Because he still thinks you can be something better than what you've been."

The handle turned.

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"He's wrong," Owen said.

And he left.