Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN BEHIND THE COLUMN
Delia knew the dress was wrong before her sister said anything.
It was slate blue, modest at the neckline, and slightly loose through the waist because the woman who had lent it to her was taller. Beneath the Ashmore Hotel’s chandeliers, the fabric looked almost gray. Delia had spent forty minutes steaming it in the bathroom while a payroll report waited open on her laptop.
Vivian let her gaze travel slowly from the dress to Delia’s bare throat.
“No jewelry?”
“I don’t own any.”
“I know. That’s rather the problem.”
A waiter passed with champagne. Vivian took a flute without looking at him, her sapphire gown catching the light in expensive, liquid folds. Everything about her had been arranged carefully: the blonde hair, the delicate earrings, the expression of pleasant anticipation.
Delia looked down at the shallow scuff across her right shoe.
Their father had called at four and told her to be ready by seven.
No explanation. No question about the work she was finishing. Just a reminder that people expected to see both his daughters and that, for once, she should try not to look as though she resented being included.
Now Harlan Beckett stood near the ice sculpture, laughing too loudly with men whose names appeared on documents he kept outside the regular accounting system.
“You could at least smile,” Vivian murmured.
“What would you like me to smile about?”
“Father needs us tonight.”
Delia looked at her sister.
That sentence had paid for a great deal in their family.
It had paid for unpaid overtime, canceled plans, delayed wages, and the peculiar arrangement by which Delia managed forty-three employees’ payroll while her father introduced her as someone who helped with paperwork.
“What does he need you to do?” she asked.
Vivian’s smile sharpened.
“Be presentable.”
Delia felt the answer settle exactly where it was meant to.
She moved toward a wide marble column near the east entrance. Behind it was a shallow recess, large enough for one person and far enough from the nearest table that nobody would feel required to make conversation.
From there, she could see most of the room.
Her father’s smile.
Her sister’s calculated position beneath a chandelier.
The side corridor leading to the service stairs.
She rubbed at the ink stain on her index finger.
It had come from a leaking printer cartridge at the freight annex that afternoon. Forty-three pay statements had needed printing, and the machine had chosen that moment to remind her that replacement parts cost money.
Money the company did not have.
Delia knew exactly how little it had.
Six months earlier, she had found a separate debt buried beneath a freight reconciliation.
Eight hundred twenty thousand dollars.
Her father had told her to stop frightening herself over figures she did not understand.
Then the room began to quiet.
Conversation faded near the double staircase, then along the bar. Even the quartet lost its place for a moment.
Casimir Varo had arrived.
Delia recognized him from manifests, contracts, and the name attached to the debt her father insisted was none of her business.
His gaze traveled across the room.
Vivian straightened.
Harlan set down his drink.
Varo looked past them both.
His eyes found the column.
Found Delia.
She held his gaze because looking away suddenly seemed more humiliating than being seen.
He began walking toward the east side of the hall.
Of course, Delia thought.
Vivian stood ten feet in front of her, beautifully lit and perfectly positioned. Delia had merely mistaken the direction of his attention.
Her sister lowered her glass and smiled.
“Mr. Varo. I’ve been hoping—”
He walked past her.
Three more steps.
Then the man their father owed stopped directly in front of Delia.
“You’ve been rubbing that ink stain for twenty minutes,” he said. “You’re making it worse.”
Delia looked down at her finger.
Then back at him.
“Are you always this observant?”
“Only when someone is trying very hard not to be noticed.”
His voice was low, measured, and unexpectedly calm.
Up close, Casimir Varo was even more intimidating than his reputation suggested.
He was thirty-eight, broad-shouldered, with dark hair brushed neatly back and a narrow scar near his left temple. His black tuxedo fit perfectly, but nothing about him suggested he had dressed to impress anyone.
Two men remained near the entrance, watching him without appearing to.
Delia recognized that arrangement.
Security.
Not decoration.
“I'm not hiding,” she said.
Casimir glanced at the column.
“Then you chose an unfortunate place to stand.”
“Perhaps I wanted a quiet evening.”
“At your father's gala?”
“Especially at my father's gala.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Amusement, perhaps.
Behind him, Vivian approached.
“Casimir,” she said warmly. “Father has been waiting to introduce us properly.”
“I know who you are, Miss Beckett.”
Vivian smiled.
“Then perhaps you'd like to dance.”
“No.”
The answer was so immediate that Delia almost winced.
Vivian's smile froze.
Casimir turned back to Delia.
“Are you responsible for Beckett Freight's payroll?”
Delia straightened.
“Yes.”
“Forty-three employees?”
“Yes.”
“Forty-four last month.”
“One resigned.”
“Why?”
“Because his wages were late three times.”
Casimir's expression changed.
“Late because of the debt?”
Delia hesitated.
She could feel Vivian watching.
“My father handles financing.”
“I didn't ask who handles financing.”
He leaned slightly closer.
“I asked whether the debt affected wages.”
Delia met his eyes.
“Yes.”
Behind him, Vivian gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“Really, Delia? You're discussing payroll at a gala?”
Casimir didn't turn around.
“It's a more interesting subject than most conversations I've had tonight.”
Vivian's cheeks colored.
Then Harlan Beckett arrived.
“Mr. Varo!”
His voice carried too loudly.
“What a pleasure. I see you've met my daughters.”
Casimir looked at him.
“I've met your payroll manager.”
Harlan's smile tightened.
“Delia helps with administration.”
“She manages forty-three employees' wages.”
“Yes, well—”
“And apparently knows more about your financial position than you think she does.”
The silence became uncomfortable.
Harlan's gaze moved to Delia.
A warning.
Casimir noticed.
His expression cooled.
“Miss Beckett,” he said, “would you accompany me to the terrace?”
Vivian immediately stepped forward.
“I'd be delighted.”
Casimir looked directly at Delia.
“I was asking your sister.”
And for the second time that evening, Vivian Beckett was left standing beneath the chandelier while the man she wanted walked away with the woman she had spent her life teaching to feel invisible.
But when Delia followed Casimir toward the terrace, she had no idea that he wasn't interested in her because of her beauty.
May you like
He had come to the gala looking for something.
And he believed she was the only person who could help him find it.
