Phei's people felt it at once.
Patricia's expression cooled by several degrees, Maddie's brows drew together, the comedy draining out of her face and something far less friendly moving in to replace it while Cassiopeia tilted her head, eyes narrowing into slow, dangerous attention — she knew Maxton-Heavenchild grade tactics on sight, and she'd just watched someone else deploy them.
Emily's gaze sharpened behind her calm mask, that efficient brain of hers already three moves deep into damage control, legal exposure, media framing and, Phei suspected, at least one viable plan for quiet homicide.
Elena, near the front, went very still, her nostrils flared faintly — she'd caught the scent of rot rising up through the expensive perfume and gone hunting-quiet over it.
The anchor let the silence breathe one polished, poisonous beat longer than necessary, then finished: "...and saved his aunt and cousins from the abusive Harold Maxton, or so they say!"
