“I got this,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the string quartet in the ballroom. The last gala I’d attended hadended in a drunken, viral catastrophe. This one would be different. It had to be.
My thoughts drifted to my dinner with Garrett two nights ago. To his aggressive, handsy behavior on my doorstep. I’d been terrified in that moment, but in the harsh light of day, a familiar, unwelcome thought had crept in: You played with fire, Beth. Did you really expect not to get singed?
I had made a strategic decision to flirt with him, to use his attraction to my advantage. And when he’d reacted exactly as a man with an inflated ego would, by misreading the signals and pushing for more, I’d been shocked. Maybe I had been naive. Maybe I’d been the one to blur the lines, sending a signal I hadn’t intended. His apology had seemed sincere enough when Ziggy interrupted. Yesterday, he was nothing but professional, almost distant. Perhaps my little performance had worked after all. I’d put him in his place, and now we could have a purely professional relationship.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped from my momentary sanctuary back into the glittering chaos. The Grand Ballroom sparkled with lights reflecting off crystal chandeliers and the obscene jewelry of New York’s elite. I approached the entrance, positioning myself where Garrett had instructed. My job was simple: greet guests, make small talk, and gently guide major donors towards Ms. Henderson or board members who could properly court their checkbooks.
I was good at this part. Years of being my parents’ show pony had made me an expert at charming strangers.
“Hello dear.”
I snapped back to the present as an elderly couple approached. Mrs. Harrington, board member emeritus, a woman whose donations practically funded the entire youth arts program.
“Mrs. Harrington, how lovely to see you,” I replied, taking her hand, my smile warm and genuine. “And Mr. Harrington, of course. Thank you both for coming tonight.”
Mrs. Harrington beamed. “Such a charming accent, my dear. Scottish, isn’t it?”
And just like that, I was off, playing my part. It felt good, surprisingly good, to be useful. To have a purpose beyond being someone’s daughter or someone’s scandal.
As I directed the Harringtons towards the silent auction, I caught sight of Garrett across the room, looking perfectly at ease. He caught my eye and raised his champagne glass slightly in acknowledgment, a cool, professional smile on his lips. I nodded back, my feelings a messy cocktail of suspicion and gratitude. Whatever his faults, he’d given me this opportunity. Maybe I had been too hard on him. Maybe it was time to trust that things were finally going my way.
“Excuse me,” a sharp voice cut through my thoughts. “Is there some reason the servers aren’t circulating with those crab puffs?”
I turned to find a middle-aged woman glaring at me expectantly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, slipping into my well-practiced, soothing society tone. “Let me check on that for you right away.”
I moved toward the kitchen, glad for the task. The kitchen was chaotic. I approached a harried-looking woman who seemed to be directing traffic. “Excuse me, I’m with the Foundation, and I was wondering?—”
“Move! Coming through!” a server called, and I barely stepped aside in time.
I tried again, but before I could speak, the kitchen doorsburst open and Ms. Henderson herself strode in, her sharp gaze sweeping the room until it landed on me.
“Ms. MacLeod? What are you doing in the kitchen?” Her tone wasn’t exactly accusatory, but it wasn’t friendly, either.
“I was just checking on the crab puffs,” I explained quickly. “One of the guests was asking.”
Ms. Henderson’s brow rose fractionally. “That’s hardly your concern. We have staff for that.” She glanced at her watch. “Where is Kyra? The Mayor’s wife is asking about the auction items, and I need?—”
The words tumbled out of me before I could stop them, my need for validation overriding my common sense. “I can help with that. I’m on the planning committee,” I blurted out, then immediately regretted it as her expression shifted from impatience to pure confusion. “Well, sort of. Garrett said?—”
“Planning committee?” Ms. Henderson’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about? We don’t put new interns on the gala planning committee.”
My stomach turned to ice. “But Garrett said he was handling it. That you just needed to approve the paperwork.”
“Ms. Henderson!” A tall, stunning Black woman in her early forties rushed through the kitchen doors. “The Mayor has arrived early, and he’s asking about the presentation schedule.”
“I’ll be right there, Kyra.” Ms. Henderson’s attention immediately snapped away from me, dismissing me completely. “We can discuss this fabricated story later, Ms. MacLeod. Please return to your assigned duties.”
My assigned duties.Smile and say hello, and stuff envelopes.
Ms. Henderson, along with Kyra, who I now realized must be the actual head of the planning committee, swept back outto the ballroom, leaving me standing alone in the chaotic heat of the kitchen.
Fabricated story.The words ran in my head. Garrett had lied. About everything. My role tonight, the committee, Ms. Henderson’s approval... it was all a complete and utter lie.
I stood frozen in the middle of the bustling kitchen, feeling increasingly out of place. What had just happened? Had I completely misunderstood Garrett? Or had he deliberately misled me?
“You’re in the way, miss,” a server said, not unkindly, as he tried to maneuver around me with a tray of those elusive crab puffs.
