"You will not sort out anything," Graham interrupted. "You will stand by and be ready to escort her to the exit."
A young man approaching the concierge counter slowed his steps. He was carrying a garment bag and wore a neatly pressed tuxedo shirt with the top button undone. He watched the manager speak to Claire, then glanced at Marcus as though wondering whether he was entering an active security incident. Graham noticed him and immediately shifted into a smooth, gracious tone.
"Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Bellwether. Right this way, please. The reception lounge is upstairs, and the elevator attendant will be happy to assist you."
The young man thanked him and walked toward the elevators. Graham smiled until the guest was out of hearing range. Then he faced Claire again, and the smile vanished so completely that it seemed to have belonged to another person. Claire registered the transition with a sadness she could not quite explain.
"You see?" Graham said. "That is a guest. He knows where he's going. He knows how to present himself."
"He was carrying a garment bag," Claire replied. "I am carrying a bag, too."
"Don't be clever."
Tessa lowered her gaze because she was afraid she might laugh at the bitter absurdity of the comparison. She caught sight of Claire's left hand resting against the cardboard bundle and noticed the ring there: a simple gold band with a small stone worn smooth by years of use. It did not look expensive. It looked treasured, the way an object looks when someone touches it without thinking and has done so thousands of times.
Graham noticed it as well. He stepped close enough to take Claire's hand before she understood what he meant to do, catching two fingers between his own and turning the ring toward the light. "Nice ring," he said. "Cubic zirconia, or did you steal it?"
Claire pulled back immediately. "Let go of my hand."
For a second, Graham did not release her. His thumb pressed across the side of her ring, and she felt a quick flash of anger sharpen her otherwise careful patience. The ring was not an heirloom anyone would have recognized, but Daniel had placed it on her finger in a little church twenty-one years earlier. A stranger's careless grip made that memory feel suddenly vulnerable.
"You don't get to touch me," she said, louder now. "Not to inspect my clothing, not to inspect my jewelry, and certainly not to decide whether I deserve to stand here."
Marcus took a step forward. "Mr. Vance, please release her."