He nods, attention already shifting to the governor's approaching figure. "The Monet sketch is genuine, if you're interested," he says. "Third display from the left."
I move toward the auction displays, champagne glass in hand, smiling at appropriate intervals as acquaintances nod recognition in passing. The Monet sketch is indeed exquisite—a preliminary study for the water lilies that captivated me in Paris. The opening bid already exceeds what Wildflower earned in its best month.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
I turn to find Caroline Harrison beside me, her own glass nearly empty. "Extraordinary," I agree. "The technique evident even in preliminary form."
"I meant your necklace," she clarifies, gesturing toward the sapphires at my throat—another gift from Gage, delivered this morning. "Though the sketch is lovely too. Gage's taste is impeccable, as always."
"Thank you," I say, fingers rising automatically to touch the stones. "It was a recent gift."
"He was always generous with Eliza as well," she observes, the casual mention of Gage's previous relationship carrying deliberate weight. "Though nothing quite so... permanent as marriage."
Before I can formulate appropriate response, a commotion near the entrance draws attention—flashbulbs popping as some celebrity arrival creates a momentary stir. Caroline turns toward the disturbance, champagne sloshing slightly in her glass.
"Excuse me," I murmur, setting my own glass on a nearby table. "Powder room."
She nods distractedly, already moving toward the entrance to investigate the disruption. I walk in the opposite direction,toward ladies' lounges located near the ballroom's service entrance.
The bathroom is surprisingly empty when I push through the heavy door—no attendant offering hand towels, no society women refreshing lipstick or exchanging gossip. Just gleaming marble, soft lighting, and silence.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back wears sapphires at her throat that catch the light with every breath. Her copper hair has been styled into an elegant updo that took Marta an hour to perfect. Her emerald silk gown was selected by Gage himself to "complement both the jewels and her coloring."
Mrs. Blackwood, Chicago society's newest acquisition.
I grip the counter's edge, suddenly dizzy with a realization that hits me like a physical blow.
I'm alone.
Truly alone for the first time in weeks. No security hovering in my peripheral vision. No Gage with his hand at the small of my back. No Marta monitoring my movements under the guise of assistance.
Just me, for this brief, unexpected moment.
I'm alone and I know this venue. The Palmer House Charity Gala uses the same layout each year. I attended twice during my former life as an Everett daughter. I remember the service corridor beyond these restrooms that leads to the kitchens. The employee exit that opens to the alley where delivery trucks park.
My heart pounds against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears. I hadn't planned this. Hadn't even considered it tonight. For weeks I've played my role perfectly, convinced Gage I've accepted my fate. His security has gradually relaxed, Victor taking a rare night off—family emergency that required Gage's reluctant permission.
The opportunity unfolds before me like a map to freedom.
Without conscious decision, my fingers move to the sapphire necklace, unhooking the clasp with practiced ease. The matching earrings follow. I stare at them in my palm—gaudy symbols of ownership that could fund months of anonymity if pawned correctly.
I slide the engagement ring—that beautiful prison with its embedded tracker—from my finger, placing it deliberately beside the sink. The wedding band follows, a dull platinum clink against marble.
My wrap can pass as a dress if belted properly. The silk gown is too distinctive—I can't be seen in it once I leave. Working quickly, I twist my hair into a tight bun, securing it with pins I remove from the more elaborate style.
A final glance in the mirror. I look different enough. Not invisible, but not obviously Mrs. Blackwood either.
I crack the bathroom door, peering out to confirm the hallway remains empty. Two quick steps take me to the service corridor. I walk with purpose, shoulders back, expression neutral but determined. A kitchen worker passes, barely glancing my way—society ladies often wander where they shouldn't, demanding and imperious.
The service exit appears ahead, illuminated by a red emergency light. I push through into night air thick with urban summer heat and kitchen exhaust.
The alley opens to a side street where, miraculously, a taxi idles as a hotel worker loads luggage for another fare. I approach quickly, wrap pulled tight around my shoulders.
"Excuse me," I call to the driver. "Are you available after this drop-off?"
He glances up, assessing my evening wear and confident tone. "Twenty minutes, back here?"
"I need to leave now," I say, opening my clutch to flash the sapphires. "I'll pay extra."
