I turn to Bitsy Aston.
"Bitsy," I say, pitching my voice to carry enough to reach the chairman, who is sitting opposite us. "I simply love your bracelet. Is it new?"
Bitsy preens, holding up her wrist to catch the candlelight. "Oh, thank you, darling. Royce surprised me with it just last week. An early anniversary gift."
"He's so generous," I coo. "And I heard you're renovating? Someone at the salon mentioned you bought a gorgeous place in St. Barths."
Royce freezes. His spoon hovers halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart to me, wide and alarmed.
"Oh, yes!" Bitsy beams, completely oblivious to her husband's sudden paralysis. "A villa near the harbor. We're having it completely redone. The design team is marvelous. 'Azure Horizons.' Have you heard of them?"
The table is polite, quiet. No one knows the name.
Except Brooks.
"Azure Horizons?" Brooks repeats. His voice is calm, conversational. But I know him. The shark is breaking the surface. "Isn't that the boutique subsidiary of Apex Capital?"
The chairman looks up. "Apex?" he repeats, the name landing like a grenade in the center of the centerpiece.
Royce drops his spoon. It clatters loudly against the china, a gunshot in the silence.
"I—I'm not sure," Bitsy stammers, sensing the shift in the air but not understanding the math. "Royce handles the bills. He got us such a wonderful deal on the renovation."
"Did he?" Brooks asks.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. He doesn't look at Royce. He looks at the chairman. He pulls out his phone and slides it across the white tablecloth.
"Funny you should mention Apex," Brooks says. "I was just looking at some diligence files. There is a fascinating overlap between Apex Capital's acquisition targets and our board's recent trading activity. Specifically regarding the shorting of our own stock."
"Now, see here, Brooks," Royce sputters, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "This is a private dinner. We don't discuss business at the table!"
"We do when the business is treason," Brooks says coldly.
The chairman picks up the phone. He puts on his reading glasses. He scrolls. He looks at the screenshot of the forum post. He looks at the LLC registration connecting the villa to the rival firm.
He looks at Royce.
"Royce," the chairman says, his voice quiet. "We need to have a chat. Outside."
Royce stands up, his chair scraping violently against the patio stones. "This is ridiculous! The boy is paranoid! He has a head injury! You're going to take the word of a... a concussed child over mine?"
"The boy," Brooks says, standing up slowly, towering over the table, "is the only reason you haven't been indicted yet. Walk away. Resign tonight, and maybe—maybe—we don't call the SEC."
Royce looks around the table. He sees the faces of his peers. He sees the shock, the judgment. He sees the end of his career.
He looks at me. His eyes are full of venom.
"You," he hisses. "You're the one. The wedding planner."
"Crisis management," I correct, taking a calm sip of my wine. "And it looks like you're in a crisis."
Royce opens his mouth to speak, but the chairman stands up. "Outside. Now."
They leave.
The table is silent. Bitsy looks like she might faint. A waiter awkwardly refills a water glass.
Brooks sits back down. He picks up his spoon. He looks entirely unruffled, as if he didn't just behead a man between the appetizer and the entrée.
