Page 31 of The Lies We Play

I can see a folder labeled Florence/Restoration Archive sitting next to me.

I can see my own reflection on the polished table, composed enough to offend me.

I can see the pen I dropped that dragged the attention of so many.

There, I found five things. Bill the estate and leave me the fuck alone for a few months.

Margaret’s mouth softens, which, if I’m honest, is worse than if she smiles.

“We can pause.”

“No.” I lift the pen, set it close to the folder, and look at the packet in front of me. “Please, continue.”

The Saint Claire Foundation boardroom has been designed to make virtue look expensive.

It has a walnut table and oxblood leather chairs. Add the brass fixtures to a tasteful glow. Art on the far wall, acquired by my grandfather before families like mine learned to put provenance lawyers on retainer. Everything in the room has been chosen with the severe restraint wealthy people mistake for morality.

No one here has ever wondered whether they deserve the room.

That may be why I have spent most of the day wanting to burn it down.

It wouldn’t be too dramatic. Not even theatrical. Theatricality was bred out of me. It was bred out of all of us, by people who considered visible emotion a failure of breeding unless it could be converted into a gala speech.

So, of course, the fire would be quiet. Efficient. Contained. Definitely legally complicated.

She would be proud of me. Though I’m not sure who she is yet.

The thought arrives so cleanly, so naturally, that for one second I almost turn toward the chair beside me to tell her.

My hand tightens around the pen.

The thought isn’t new. That is what unsettles me. It doesn't feel discovered. It feels returned.

A woman in an apartment, barefoot on my couch. Dark hair caught against her cheek after hours of great sex. Then there is more. Tabs in four colors are spread across legal documents. Orange for betrayal, because apparently betrayal deserved a filing system.

Mrs. Saint Claire has opinions.

I blink, because why would I mention my mother or any other Mrs. Saint Claire? The boardroom snaps back into place.

Margaret is watching me.

So is Everett.

So is everyone else, though most of them have the manners to pretend they are studying grant projections instead of my face. Saint Claires are civilized that way. We only devour in private, through attorneys, trusts, and concerned phone calls placed at terrible hours.

“As I was saying,” Margaret resumes, “the Florence matter remains contained. The institute has been cooperative, though we should continue monitoring access to the restoration archive until the transfer is complete.”

Florence.

There it is again.

A wound someone keeps calling manageable.

“Which institute?” I ask.

There’s another pause.

This one is brief.