She hated that.
“Please sit.”
They did.
The Broadway producer looked starstruck.
“You’re Ava Mercer.”
“So I’m told.”
He laughed too loudly.
Margaret sat beside her.
“I owe you an apology.”
“Yes.”
Margaret blinked.
Ava smiled faintly.
“You do.”
The older woman laughed.
“Fair.”
Ava looked toward her.
“But not for Claire.”
Margaret frowned.
“For what?”
“You knew about the Whitmore contract.”
Margaret sighed.
“Yes.”
“You objected.”
“Yes.”
“But you stayed on the board.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Margaret looked toward the stage.
“Because if everyone who cares leaves when governance gets ugly, only the people causing the ugliness remain.”
Ava considered.
That answer was better than expected.
“Did you document your objection?”
“Yes.”
“Send it tomorrow.”
“I will.”
The raffle began.
People cheered.
Tickets spun in a transparent drum.
The silver sedan gleamed under chandeliers.
The two women who had mocked Ava earlier avoided looking toward table fourteen.
Ava noticed.
Then ignored them.
The winner was not a billionaire.
Not a celebrity.
Not even one of the twenty-ticket donors.
A teacher from Queens who had bought one ticket using money pooled by six coworkers won.
Her name was Denise Harper.
When the number was announced, she stared at the screen.
Then at her ticket.
Then started crying.
The ballroom erupted.
Ava smiled.
That was worth the car.
Denise climbed the stage.
Hands shaking.
The host gave her keys.
She said into the microphone:
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with this.”
People laughed.
Then she added:
“My sister used HavenBridge seven years ago.”
The laughter stopped.
“She’s alive because somebody helped her leave.”
Denise wiped tears.
“So I bought one ticket.”
Applause rose again.
Real this time.
Ava looked down.
Her eyes burned.
Margaret whispered:
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
She was not.
But in a good way.
Denise continued.
“I probably can’t afford the insurance.”
Huge laughter.
Even Ava.
Then the host explained that first-year insurance had been included anonymously.
Ava had arranged that too.
Denise nearly collapsed.
The ballroom stood.
For several minutes, everything else disappeared.
Claire.
The contract.
The insult.
The four million.
Only the reason people were supposedly there.
Help.
That was useful.
Rooms like this needed reminders.
After the raffle, Ava stepped into a quieter corridor.
She needed air.
Not outdoor air.
Just fewer people.
Her phone contained forty-three notifications.
Search results had spread.
Photos.
Messages.
Daniel, her chief of staff, had texted:
Please tell me you did not accidentally become tonight’s headline.
Ava typed:
Define accidentally.