hand clenched around mine.
—We should greet the Carstairs table, she said quickly.
Victor blocked her with his cane.
—We will speak after the auction.
—No.
The word cut clean through the music returning behind us.
I had never heard Mara tell him no. I had never heard anyone tell him no.
Victor’s eyes narrowed. —Careful.
—You taught me that, she said.
He looked at me again. This time he did not look amused. He looked as if someone had moved a valuable object without permission.
—Enjoy your evening, Noah Vale.
He said my name like he was filing it away.
When he walked off, Mara kept smiling until he was swallowed by tuxedos and perfume. Then the smile collapsed.
—Come with me.
She dragged me past a wall of white orchids, through a side door, and into a service corridor that smelled of lemon cleaner, hot butter, and panic.
The moment the door shut behind us, she let go of my hand.
—You should not have spoken to him like that.
—You asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend, not your furniture.
Her mouth opened, then closed.
For the first time since I had known her, Mara Ellery had no immediate answer.
I rubbed my palm against my trouser leg. Her fingers had left crescent marks in my skin.
—What is going on?
She looked toward the ballroom door. Her face in the corridor light seemed younger and more exhausted. Less marble. More human.
—My father is trying to take something from me.
—The key?
Her hand flew to her throat.
That was answer enough.
—What does it open?
—A box.
—What is in the box?
She stared at me for a long moment.
—The truth.
I almost laughed, because people like Mara did not say things like that unless they were in movies or lawsuits. But she was not being dramatic. Her lips were pale. Her shoulders were still straight, but it looked painful to keep them that way.
—Noah, she said. —I chose you because he underestimates you. That may keep you alive long enough to walk out of here.
My stomach dropped.
—Alive?
Before she could answer, a waiter appeared at the far end of the corridor carrying a tray of empty champagne glasses. He slowed when he saw us. Mara turned away, but he had already seen the key.
His eyes flicked once toward it.
Then toward the emergency exit.
I had been organizing executive dinners for over a year. I knew the catering staff by sight, at least roughly. This man was not one of them. His jacket fit too well. His shoes were black leather without a single scuff, not the shoes of someone working six hours on marble floors.
He reached into his pocket.
I moved without thinking.
I pulled Mara behind a rolling dessert cart just as the man lifted his phone. The screen flashed. Not a weapon. A camera.
—Hey, I shouted.
He turned and ran.
Mara pushed past me. —Stop him.
The command snapped me back into being her assistant. I ran.
Through the service hall, past stacked chairs and crates of mineral water, after the man with the wrong shoes. He shoved through a stairwell door. I caught it before it closed and followed him down two
