“How much?” I asked.
There was a pause.
“Seventy-eight thousand.”
I nearly dropped my fork. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“It’s not all of it,” he rushed. “It’s the remaining balance, service charges, alcohol overage, and some add-ons Vivian approved this afternoon.”
“Of course she did.”
“Claire—”
“No. Let me guess. No one wanted to talk about real numbers because everyone wanted to look rich.”
Silence. That was answer enough.
I stood and walked to the edge of the terrace, looking down at a narrow Roman street glowing gold under the lights. My anger had turned cold, precise—almost useful.
“Put Connor on.”
A few seconds later, my brother-in-law came on, breathless and furious.
“Claire, I know this looks bad—”
“This doesn’t look bad, Connor. It is bad.”
“We just need help getting through tonight.”
“You mean you need help. Interesting, considering Vivian made it clear I’d ruin the aesthetic.”
He exhaled sharply. “She was wrong.”