Vincent stepped closer, his manicured hand trembling slightly as he reached out toward Noah, stopping an inch from his sleeve.
“You have an extraordinary mind, son,” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking on the final word.
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“Thank you, Mr. Moretti, but my mother raised me to value discipline over flattery,” Noah replied evenly, keeping his hands at his sides.
Sophia lunged forward, her fingers clawing at Vincent’s cashmere sleeve, her voice shrill with frantic, barely contained terror.
“Vincent, we have an executive dinner reservation at the Charles Hotel; the board members are already waiting for us,” she pleaded desperately.
Vincent did not look at her; he violently shook his arm free from her grasp, never taking his bloodshot eyes off my face.
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“Eighteen years, Claire,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with an equal mixture of profound grief and volcanic anger.
“You told the entire auditorium that your husband was dead,” he accused, taking another half-step toward my perimeter.
