Corinne drew herself up.
“If this is about the wedding — “
“It’s about the renewal.
Your foundation’s contract for the ’27 season is on my desk.
Three years, this room, the second Saturday of April.
Your assistant has called my events director four times this month.”
Her chin came up.
“And?”
“And I’m going to sign it.”
I watched two hundred and forty people not understand.
I watched Corinne not understand.
“You’re — “
“I’m signing it.
Same rate.
Same date.
Same room.”
“Why?”
And here is what I said, quietly, at a table, to a woman who had spent two years teaching a ballroom how to look at me.
“Because the rent from your gala pays for eleven caseworkers for four months.
Last year, your two hundred and forty guests drinking champagne under that chandelier paid to get eighty-one women’s names off mortgages they never signed for.”
