The manager was still on his knees when Marcus finally spoke, and his voice carried the particular quiet that was somehow worse than shouting. "Get her out." Two of the household staff who'd been standing near the door moved before Brenna even understood the sentence had been directed at her. Hands closed around her arms, firm, impersonal, the kind of grip used on someone who was no longer being treated as a guest. "Wait—" Brenna's voice cracked upward, disbelief arriving late, the way it always did with her. "Wait, you can't just — do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what I—" "I know exactly who you are," Marcus said, not bothering to raise his voice to match hers. "You're the woman who called my grandson trash to his face this morning and spent the rest of the day trying to sell that trash out for a business deal. I know precisely who you are." They were already pulling her backward, her heels catching on the polished floor, one strap giving way entirely so that the sho