I answered and said nothing at first. “Miss Monroe,” he repeated, slower now, with silverware clinking behind him. “I am sitting at a table with your family. Your father has read the front page four times, and your mother has not said a word since. I owe you an apology.” I walked to the terrace railing, the sound glittering below me, and asked him what he wanted from me.

“The truth,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Your article names every firm that signed with you this year. Reading it, I finally understood why my son pushed me to sign a two million dollar contract with your biggest competitor last week. He owns a hidden share of that company, Miss Monroe. He told me at Christmas that your work was a toy, and your sister is sitting beside him right now, learning it all at once.”