"Mia, if you drop a single glass tonight, I will personally bury you under the coat check."

Olivia shoved a black apron into my hands. Her headset was crooked, and she had a pen behind each ear.

"Good evening to you too."

"No. No pleasantries. This is the Morel family gala. Do you know what that means?"

"Rich people?"

"Rich people who decide whether my company lives or dies." She grabbed my shoulders. "Their annual charity dinner. I fought three agencies for it. If this goes well, I'm set for five years."

"Then breathe, Liv."

"I'll breathe in January."

Behind her, George sat on a folding chair. He swung his legs and hugged Mr. Bear. He wore a tiny bow tie that Olivia had bought him "for morale."

"Why is he here again?" I asked.

"Because my sitter canceled, and the head of security owes me a favor." Olivia pointed at a door marked STAFF ONLY. "He can sit in the back office with Frank and watch cartoons. Right, George?"

"Cartoons," George agreed. His smile was very, very sweet.

I narrowed my eyes. "You're being suspiciously good."

"I'm always good, Mommy."

"You hid a frog in my bread box last month."

"The frog was cold."

Olivia was already dragging me toward the ballroom.

---

In the back office, Frank fell asleep eleven minutes into the cartoon.

George climbed onto the big swivel chair. Twelve little screens glowed in front of him. Ballroom. Kitchen. Front entrance. Lobby.

He opened Aunt Olivia's tablet.

"Okay, Mr. Bear. Daddy Candidate said no to the party."

Two days ago, he'd found the email. Antonio Morel would not attend. A flight to Chicago, booked for seven o'clock.

George had swapped two little lines on the man's phone calendar. The Chicago meeting now said *Postponed by client.* The gala note now said *Mandatory. Board chair present. Speech at 8:30.*

On the entrance screen, a black car pulled up.

A tall man stepped out. His face looked like it had been carved out of a freezer.

George kicked his feet happily.

"He came."

---

I didn't notice him at first. I was too busy balancing a tray of champagne and smiling at people who didn't look at me.

Then the room changed.

Conversations got quieter. Women turned their heads like flowers turning toward sun. A man in a black suit walked through the crowd, and nobody touched him. They just parted.

"Who's that?" I whispered to the waiter next to me.

He nearly choked. "You're kidding."

"I've been in Spain."

"That's Antonio Morel. It's his family's party. He never comes to these."

Well, he'd come to this one. And he looked furious about it.

A woman in silver sequins glided up to him. "Antonio! You look wonderful. Do you remember me? Celeste Darrow. We met in Monaco."

"No."

Her smile wobbled. "The yacht party?"

"I don't remember yachts."

Another woman tried next. Then another. He answered each one with a single word, like he was paying for every syllable.

Then a girl in pink laughed too loudly and hooked her arm through his.

"Oh, come on, don't be so serious—"

He went gray.

Not pale. Gray. He yanked his arm free and turned his face away, one hand pressed hard over his mouth. His shoulders jerked once, then again.

The girl stumbled back. "What's wrong with him?"

A huge man in a dark suit stepped between them. "Miss. Please move away."

"I barely touched—"

"Move away."

The tall man straightened. Sweat shone at his temple. His eyes were cold enough to crack glass.

"Dmitri," he said quietly. "Get the car."

"Sir, the speech—"

"Someone else can read it."

Next to me, the waiter let out a low whistle. "Told you. He's allergic to women."

"That's not a real thing."

"Tell that to the four doctors his family's paid. Nobody can fix it."

Olivia's voice snapped through my earpiece. "Mia, the red wine cart. Table nine. Now."

---

In the back office, George watched the tall man turn toward the exit.

"No, no, no. Not yet."

His fingers flew across the tablet. The hotel's new serving carts had electric brakes. Smart brakes. Connected to the hotel network.

He found Cart 4. Mommy's cart.

"Sorry, Mr. Cart," he whispered, and tapped.

---

The cart jerked.

One second I was steering it past the dance floor. The next, the wheels locked dead, and the whole thing lurched to a stop.

I didn't.

The glass in my hand flew forward. Red wine arced through the air, bright as a ribbon.

It landed right on the chest of Antonio Morel.

The whole ballroom went silent.

Dark red soaked through his white shirt. It spread across the black jacket. It dripped onto his perfect shoes.

"Oh my God." I grabbed a napkin off the cart. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry—"

I didn't think. I pressed the napkin against his chest and started blotting. My other hand braced on his shoulder so I could reach.

"Don't rub it," I muttered. "Rubbing makes it worse. You have to dab. Hold still."

He didn't hold still. He went rigid.

Behind him, the big guard lunged. "Sir! Step back, miss, step back right now—"

Then the guard stopped.

He stared at his boss's face. His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I kept dabbing. "Sir, I'll pay for the damage. I promise. Though it might have to be in installments."

Someone in the crowd laughed. Then cut it off fast.

A hand closed around my wrist.

Not hard. Just firm. Warm fingers. Long ones. I looked up.

He was staring at my hand like it was a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for ten years. His thumb rested right over my pulse. I could feel his heartbeat through the wet shirt. It was racing.

"Sir?" the guard said, very carefully. "Are you... feeling sick?"

Antonio didn't answer him.

His gray eyes lifted to my face. For one strange second, something flickered in them. Confusion. Almost recognition.

"What's your name?" he asked. His voice was low and rough.

Oh, no. He wanted it for the lawsuit.

"Right. Of course." I fumbled my staff badge off its clip and pushed it into his free hand. "Everything's on there. Company number too. Please don't sue my boss. It's not her fault, it's the cart. The cart is evil."

"The cart," he repeated.

"Very evil. Excuse me."

I pulled my wrist free. He let me go slowly, his fingers sliding off my skin like he didn't want to.

I grabbed the cart and fled toward the kitchen. I didn't look back. If I looked back, I'd see Olivia's face, and I'd die right there on the dance floor.

---

Antonio stood in the middle of the ballroom, soaked in wine.

The crowd whispered. He didn't hear them.

He looked down at his own hand. No shaking. No sweat. No sick twist in his stomach.

Just warmth. Still there. Like her skin had left something behind.

"Sir." Dmitri's voice was hushed. "She touched you. Both hands. You're... fine."

"I noticed."

Marcus appeared at his elbow, out of breath. "Sir, I saw from the stage. Do you want me to call the event company and file a complaint?"

Antonio turned the badge over. *Mia Lawson. Event Staff.* A small, smiling photo.

His chest gave that same hard, stupid beat.

"No complaint," he said.

"Then what—"

"Find out everything about this woman." He closed his fist around the badge. "Where she lives. Where she came from. Everything."

---

In the back office, Frank snored.

George leaned so close to the screen that his nose almost touched it. On the monitor, the tall man stood perfectly still, staring at the kitchen door.

George snapped his fingers. It took him three tries to get the sound right.

"Very good, Daddy Candidate," he whispered. "First-round interview passed."

He reached for the tablet to close everything down.

Then he paused.

On the lobby screen, a woman in a white gown stepped out of a long silver car. She had a man's arm in hers. He was smiling. She was smiling.

George had seen her face before. In a folder named *Birthday Presents.*

V. Crane.

And she was walking straight toward the ballroom.