"Are you finished?" he asked.
The question was so controlled that Margo's anger deepened. Her neck flushed red beneath her pearl necklace.
"Finished? I haven't even started."
She turned and walked toward the bar. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble. Without breaking stride, she took a full glass of red wine from a passing tray.
Byron stayed where he was.
He did not chase her. He did not pull out a business card. He did not call his lawyer, show his credentials, or announce that he controlled Meridian Capital.
Around him, guests adjusted their silverware and returned their attention to their tables, pretending the previous minutes had not happened.
Nobody approached Byron.
Nobody asked whether he was all right.
Nobody said Margo was wrong.
That silence told him almost as much as Margo's words had.
The young waiter who had passed earlier returned. He was about twenty-five, Black, with the careful expression of someone who had learned how to make himself unobtrusive in rooms where he had little power.
He stopped near Byron and pretended to adjust a napkin.
"Sir," he whispered without looking directly at him, "you should probably go. She won't stop."
Byron looked at the young man, and something softened in his expression.
He had been that young man once. He remembered entering rooms where people looked through him. He remembered swallowing words because rent was due and his mother had taught him that surviving one day sometimes mattered more than winning one argument.
"I appreciate that," Byron said quietly. "But I'm staying."
The waiter searched his face for a moment, nodded, and moved away.
Across the ballroom, Margo stood beside the bar holding the wine glass. She swirled the dark red liquid once and stared at Byron from across the room.
She was not finished.
The first confrontation had been words. The next would leave a physical stain that nobody present would be able to deny.
Margo walked toward Byron again. Conversations lowered into whispers as people noticed her approach. Several guests turned completely in their chairs.
She stopped two feet from him.
"Get out of my event. Now."
The discriminatory contempt in her voice was no longer disguised.
Byron looked at her. "I'm an invited guest. I'm not leaving."
Something snapped behind her eyes.
Margo raised the glass and poured the wine straight down the front of his white shirt.
The liquid spread across the fabric, dark at the center and lighter toward the edges. It ran down his chest, reached his belt, and dripped onto the marble floor.
The ballroom became completely silent.
Byron felt the cold wine soak through the shirt and undershirt. His pulse jumped once, then steadied. Twenty years in business had taught him that control mattered most when someone else was desperate to take it away.