Paige had a seat at the head table because Paige’s Table was the evening’s main sponsor. Her staff was in the back moving with that quiet choreography she’d trained into them: plates timed, coffee poured before anyone asked, desserts arriving like a promise.
Paige watched it all without hovering, because real leadership didn’t need to hover. She was sipping water, napkin folded across her lap, hands calm, when the doors opened and Wendell walked in like he was late on purpose.
He wasn’t alone.
On his arm was Rochelle Simmons—tall, sharp cheekbones, a red dress that knew exactly what it was doing. Rochelle moved through the room like she owned the floor, nodding at board members she’d never met, smiling at donors whose names she shouldn’t have known, accepting compliments like she’d been born in a gala program.
Wendell kept his palm at the small of Rochelle’s back and guided her from table to table, introducing her to people who blinked in confusion but stayed polite, because that’s what rich rooms do when something doesn’t add up. Wendell was performing, and Rochelle was his stage.
Paige watched from the head table. Her water glass stayed untouched. She pressed her fingertips together beneath the tablecloth, not in prayer, but in calculation. She didn’t look hurt. She looked like a woman reading a contract before she signs it.
Wendell spotted her and crossed the room with long, deliberate strides, Rochelle trailing two steps behind like a shadow that wanted credit. He stopped at Paige’s table and looked down at her the way a man looks at furniture he’s already decided to replace.
“You still trying to play a part you were never built for?” he said, loud enough that the surrounding tables could hear every syllable and know exactly who he was talking to.
Paige didn’t answer. She lifted her eyes to his and held them there, steady.
