Meredith crossed the floor with two friends behind her and stopped beside Scarlett’s chair. “I believe you’re sitting at the wrong table.”
Scarlett looked at the engraved place card in front of her, then at Meredith. “No. I’m exactly where I was invited to sit.”
Meredith smiled without warmth. “This table is reserved for principal donors and board-level guests.”
Scarlett folded her hands calmly over her lap. “Then the arrangement appears correct.”
A few nearby guests exchanged uncertain glances.
Meredith’s smile tightened.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice, though not enough to prevent the nearest tables from hearing. “Do you actually know who is hosting this event?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you should understand that wandering into a private gala doesn’t make you part of the room.”
Scarlett’s gaze did not move. “I didn’t wander anywhere.”
That answer irritated Meredith more than an apology would have.
She glanced at the staff, then at the photographers circling the ballroom. What had begun as annoyance sharpened into something theatrical. Meredith had spent years learning how to dominate a room, and she could sense an audience gathering around the confrontation.
“Show me your invitation.”
Scarlett reached into her small evening bag and placed the embossed card on the table.
Meredith picked it up, read Scarlett’s name, and paused.
For a fraction of a second, something uncertain crossed her face.
Then arrogance recovered faster than judgment.
“Scarlett Foran,” Meredith repeated. “That name is supposed to mean something?”
Scarlett watched her carefully. “Apparently not to you.”
A quiet laugh escaped one of Meredith’s friends.
Meredith heard it.
Her cheeks colored.
