James Harlan enters with a leather folder tucked beneath one arm, silver hair perfectly combed, expression carefully assembled into professional neutrality. He is a man built from pinstripes, polished shoes, and decades of witnessing family money turn people into animals. But even he pauses for half a second when he sees the baby.
Then the mask returns.
“Mrs. Caldwell,” he says to me gently, then gives a smaller nod toward the others. “Thank you for coming. Margaret requested that all named parties be present.”
Named parties.
I hate that phrase instantly.
It turns blood into paperwork. Adultery into a seating chart.
I move to the chair opposite Ethan because my knees feel unreliable and because standing any longer would make me appear either hysterical or weak, and I am suddenly determined to be neither. My purse lands on the table with more force than intended. Lauren adjusts the blanket around the baby with small careful motions, as if she has every right to sit there under the authority of the dead.
Harlan opens the folder.