After a much-needed sleep, Roman and I got up and pattered our way down to the kitchen.
Geoffrey had of course prepared coffee and breakfast for us. I was delighted to see French toast with seasonal fruit and cream cheese.
As we settled in, I noticed a stack of papers at the head of the table. I scooted the pile closer and asked, "What's all this?"
"Must be the receipts and ledgers from last night. I had one of the guys run it to my accountant to compile for you," Roman replied before taking a long sip of his coffee.
I drummed my fingers against the top folder excitedly before I finally opened it. The prices of each art piece sold, the dresses, and all donations were put onto a spreadsheet. The cost of the catering and everything else was then subtracted. My eyes scanned over all the details before I finally had to flip the page and found my way to the bottom.
I gawked.
"What's the prognosis?" Roman asked.
"We..." I began, but my voice died in my throat.
