The wine surged through my veins like liquid fire as I watched William Harrington’s words form in slow motion. My fingernails dug crescent moons into my palms. His voice landed somehow both muffled and painfully clear.

“My son deserves better than someone from the gutter,” he announced to a room full of his country-club friends, their lacquered wives, and the family members who had learned exactly when to smile and when to keep their eyes politely down. “Street garbage in a borrowed dress, pretending to belong in our world.”

Twenty-three pairs of eyes swiveled between William and me, waiting to see whether the nobody dating the prince would dare respond to the king.

I reached for my napkin. The linen probably cost more than my first month’s rent when I was twenty. I folded the fabric once, twice, placed it to the left of my plate of untouched salmon, and stood.

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Harrington,” I said, voice steady. “And thank you for finally being honest about how you feel.”

Across the table, Quinn’s fingers found mine under the white cloth and gripped hard enough to bruise. “Zafira, don’t,” he whispered, panic riding shotgun with shame in his eyes.

I squeezed back—once—and let go. “It’s fine, love,” I said just for him. “Your father’s right. I should know my place.”

The smirk that bloomed across William’s face was worth archiving, a self-satisfied expression in the wild: a man who had finally driven away the street rat daring to touch his precious son.

If only he knew.

I walked out of the dining room with my head high. Past the Monet in the hallway (I was fairly certain it was one of the water lilies that never made it into the museum), past the staff who avoided my eyes because it was not their job to witness anything, past the Bentley the valet had angled just so in the circle drive. I stepped into the cool night air and the Harrington estate receded like a photograph curling at the edges.

“Zee!” Quinn sprinted after me and caught up next to my sensible Toyota—the one William had sneered at when I pulled up earlier. He looked wrecked, the good kind of wrecked that happens when an illusion breaks and you can finally see. Tears stood in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I had no idea he would … I’ll make him apologize.”

“No.” I tucked a stray strand of his dark hair behind his ear. “No more apologizing for him. He said what he’s been thinking for a year. At least now we know where we stand.”

“Please don’t let him ruin us.”

“He can’t ruin what’s real.” I kissed his forehead. “Call me tomorrow.”

He nodded, reluctant. I got in my car and watched the mansion shrink in the rearview mirror, its windows gleaming like stars I was supposedly never meant to reach.

My phone started buzzing before I reached the main road. I ignored it. It would be Quinn’s mother trying to smooth, or his sister offering empathy without consequence. They weren’t bad people, just weak ones—too trained by William to believe harmony was more important than truth.

I had more important calls.

“Danielle,” I said when my assistant picked up on the first ring.

“Miss Cross?” She switched instantly from sleep to alert. In six years, she’d learned to gauge emergencies by my tone. “Everything all right?”

“Cancel the Harrington Industries merger.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Are you certain?”

“Completely. Draft the statement for the board: Cross Capital no longer sees Harrington as a strategic partner. Effective immediately.”

“Yes, Miss Cross.”

I hung up and exhaled. The night air tasted sharper now, fresher, as though the stars themselves had realigned. William Harrington thought I was street garbage. He had no idea that the “borrowed dress” I wore was custom Dior, bought outright from last quarter’s profits. He had no idea that the woman at his table controlled the largest minority stake in his company’s most crucial merger. He had no idea that the girl from the gutter now held the pen that could redraw his empire.

The fallout came faster than even I expected. By morning, the financial press was ablaze: Cross Capital Withdraws from Harrington Merger. Stock prices tumbled. Reporters swarmed the Harrington estate like vultures circling a wounded lion.

Danielle forwarded me William’s voicemail by noon.

“Miss Cross,” his tone oily, desperate. “Surely there’s been a misunderstanding. I’d like to discuss—”

Delete.

By evening, I had three messages from Quinn, none from his father. Quinn begged me to reconsider, said William was willing to meet, to apologize, to make things right. But some things you don’t sweep under the Persian rug with a forced apology and a glass of $2,000 Bordeaux.

I wasn’t petty. I was principled. And principles were expensive, but I could afford them now.

Three nights later, Quinn showed up at my apartment. No Bentley in sight, just his own car. He looked exhausted.

“He hasn’t slept,” Quinn said, pacing. “He’s furious, but mostly scared. You’ve put him on his knees.”

I sipped my coffee, calm. “He put himself there.”

Quinn stopped, ran a hand through his hair. “Do you still want me?”

The question gutted me more than his father’s insult ever had. “Of course I want you. But I won’t crawl for his approval.”

His eyes softened. “Then neither will I.”

He crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms. For the first time since the dinner, I let myself break. I buried my face against his chest, let the tears come, not from weakness but from the release of standing too tall for too long.

Weeks later, I walked into a shareholder meeting at Harrington Industries. William was there, thinner, meaner, stripped of his usual smugness. Our eyes met across the boardroom table.

“Miss Cross,” he said stiffly, “I … regret my words at dinner.”

I smiled. Not cruelly, just truthfully. “Words have consequences, Mr. Harrington. But don’t worry—I’ve already cleaned up the garbage.”

His jaw tightened. The room went still. He understood. Everyone did.

I turned my focus back to the agenda. The business moved forward.

That night, as Quinn and I shared takeout on my couch, he raised his glass of cheap red wine.

“To us,” he said.

“To us.”

We clinked glasses. And for the first time in weeks, I laughed. Because William Harrington was right about one thing: I did know my place.

It just happened to be at the head of the table.