“Considering you’re not female, and you’re clearly not a mother, you can’t possibly understand the lengths a mother would go to protect her child, no matter how old he is. I wasn’t taking any chances. The Riscoffs are—”

A woman cuts her off. “But did they pay you off, Renee?”

Renee’s face screws up into a vicious frown. “It was blood money. I took it because I had no choice. Don’t you dare judge me.”

“And what do you think about the rumors that Whitney Rango, your late son’s widow, is now in a relationship with Lincoln Riscoff?”

Renee’s gaze sharpens. “I have only one thing to say about that opportunistic, gold-digging whore—she killed my son! She may as well have put that needle in his vein. She never should’ve cheated on him. She did this; she took him from me. And now I’m going to take everything from that lying little c—”

The recording cuts off, and McKinley and I both spin around when we hear a gasp.

Whitney stands behind me, her arms wrapped around her middle. “That bitch. That conniving, lying bitch. I never cheated on him!”

I reach out to pull her against me, but Whitney shakes her head.

“I don’t need placating. It’s time to set the record straight. I’m done letting Renee paint me as the monster here, and the press believing every single word of it. I’m done. It’s my turn now.”

I thread my fingers through hers. “You can have your say, Blue. No question. But how do you want to do it? A press conference? We can set one up for tomorrow.”

Whitney shakes her head. “No, I’m doing this right now.” She lifts her gaze toward the front of the house. “The press is here. She’s here. I’m not letting Renee Rango terrorize me for another goddamned day.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“This sounds like a really risky idea, Whitney,” McKinley says. “Not that I think you shouldn’t have your say, but—”

Whitney tugs her fingers from my grip. “It’s time. I’m going.”

Ten

Whitney

The last time I left the Riscoff estate, I was the disgraced maid who’d been caught screwing around with the heir. This time, I’m walking out the door with Lincoln beside me, his sister behind us, and Commodore watching from the massive front porch. He rolled out of his study just in time to catch my march to the front door, making me wonder if the old man has cameras rigged in the house. Either way, I wasn’t going to let him stop me.

I fully expected Commodore would tell me to let the lawyers handle it, and I wasn’t allowed to make a statement to the press, but he surprised me by saying, “It’s about time you gave them hell, Ms. Gable.”

The clasp of Lincoln’s hand is strong and warm as I stride toward the gate. Even though fear of the possible repercussions of my actions races through my veins, I’m not going to let it stop me.