"Mrs. Whitmore, how lovely to see you." I shake hands. Smile. Lie. "Yes, we're so excited. Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Castellano, what a pleasure." Another handshake. Another empty pleasantry. "Of course. We're thrilled you could make it."
The faces blur together. Names I'll never remember attached to people I'll never see again. They all say the same things. Offer the same congratulations. Ask the same questions about flowers, venues, and honeymoon destinations.
And I smile. And nod. And die a little more with each guest.
The last guest finally passes through. My cheeks ache from smiling. My feet throb in heels too high for standing this long.
Then I hear it. Faint but unmistakable.
Buzzing.
My pulse leaps. I scan the room, trying not to be obvious. There—near a vase of white roses on the hall table. A single bumblebee hovers, impossibly still.
The estate has transformed. The marble floors gleam under chandeliers that cast diamond patterns across every surface. Guests drift through the space like colorful birds—silk rustling, jewelry glinting, champagne glasses catching light.
Servers weave through the crowd. Crisp white shirts. Black waistcoats. Invisible until someone needs them. They carry silver trays laden with champagne flutes and tiny, perfect appetizers.
The air is thick with competing scents—truffle oil, caviar, the cloying sweetness of the lilies lining every surface. My stomach churns.
A server approaches. Male. Nondescript. His face partially hidden by the brim of his cap, pulled low.
Nothing remarkable. Just another piece of background staff.
He raises his tray toward us. Champagne flutes arranged in precise rows.
Then his hand jerks.
The movement is so small I almost miss it. But the result is spectacular.
A flute tips. Champagne arcs through the air in a glittering cascade. The cold liquid hits my dress, soaking through silk in an instant.
I gasp. Step back. The champagne is frigid against my skin, spreading across my stomach and thighs.
"Oh, I do apologize, Miss." The server's voice is low. Cultured. Familiar in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
He straightens, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses with one hand. Wild gray hair frames his face—too long, slightly unkempt. The kind of dishevelment that looks accidental but probably isn't.
Our eyes meet.
Kind eyes. Warm. Unmistakable despite the disguise.
Anthony.
Paul's butler. Here. In my father's house. Dressed as a server and spilling champagne on me like he's just another clumsy employee.
Recognition floods through me so fast I feel dizzy. I start to open my mouth?—
"You clumsy old fool." Prescott's voice cuts through the moment like a blade. His face flushes red, veins standing out in his neck. "Do you have any idea how much that dress costs?"
Anthony bows his head, the picture of contrition. He pulls a napkin from his pocket and starts dabbing at the champagne spreading across my dress.
His hand brushes mine.
"Go to your room." The words are barely a breath. So quiet I almost think I imagined them.
Then he's stepping back, apologizing profusely in a voice that carries across the room—making a scene and drawing attention.
