Nicholas turned on him.
“With respect, Mr.
Stewart, you’re hearing only one side.”
“I heard you say she did not belong at the tables where experienced, accomplished professionals were seated.”
Nicholas opened his mouth.
Emmett did not let him interrupt.
“I heard you call her work insignificant.
I watched you walk past her several times without acknowledging her.
And when I sat beside her, your first concern was not your sister.
It was the seating arrangement.”
The investor Nicholas had followed during cocktail hour stepped forward.
“Nicholas,” he said, “you told me your company’s greatest strength was recognizing undervalued talent.”
Nicholas looked at him.
“It is.”
The investor glanced at me, then back at my brother.
“I think we may define that skill differently.”
He returned to his table.
No dramatic announcement followed.
No contract was torn up.
No one needed to make a scene.
The damage was quieter than that.
People stopped looking at Nicholas as the polished young founder who understood status, opportunity, and judgment.
They started looking at him as a man who had failed to recognize value in his own family until someone wealthier pointed it out.
Nicholas seemed to understand.
His shoulders stiffened beneath the tuxedo.
“Can we please continue the reception?” he asked.
Emmett looked at me.
“Would you like to sit at my table?”
Every person near us waited.
The invitation offered me exactly what Nicholas had withheld: a visible place among the people he considered important.
For one second, I imagined walking with Emmett to the front.
I imagined sitting beneath the brightest chandelier while Nicholas watched.
Then the boy with the crooked bow tie tugged my sleeve.
“You didn’t finish the dragon.”
I looked down.
A green crayon rested beside my hand.
The dragon had wings, enormous teeth, and only half a tail.
I turned back to Emmett.
“I’m staying here until dinner is over.”
Nicholas let out a breath that almost sounded relieved.
Then I added, “You’re welcome to join us.”
Emmett smiled.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He sat again.
One of his assistants approached from the edge of the ballroom, but Emmett waved him toward another table.
A server hurried over carrying a formal place setting.
Emmett declined it and accepted the same paper napkin and simple plate arranged for everyone at Table Nineteen.
The children immediately began questioning him.
“Are you really a billionaire?” one boy asked.
Emmett looked at me.
“I’m told we’re not discussing business at the wedding.”
The nanny covered a laugh.
Another child pushed the dragon drawing toward him.
“Can a dragon beat a truck?”
“It depends who writes the ending,” Emmett said.
He handed the picture back to me.
