3
CHAMPAGNE COLLISION
CALLAHAN
The reception was in full swing by the time I arrived. Laurentian Palace's ballroom had transformed from the ceremony into the reception, tables set with crystal glasses and white roses, champagne flowing like water, music shifting from classical to something with an actual beat. People danced, laughed, performed their joy with the ease of those who'd never questioned whether happiness was real.
I stood near the bar, silk mask covering just enough of my face to blur my identity, and watched two hundred people celebrate love like it was simple.
It wasn't simple. Nothing ever was.
A woman in emerald silk drifted over, already a few drinks in, judging by how she held her glass. “God, these things go on forever, don't they?”
I smiled. “The champagne helps.”
“Does it?” She laughed, loose and unguarded. “Rebecca Ashford. Corporate law.”
“Ken Hartley.”
She launched into complaints about her firm, the merger that was falling apart, the long hours. I nodded, remembered the important bits. Her firm handled high-profile cases. She knew people.
Useful.
I excused myself after five minutes, moved through the crowd. Harrow was near the eastern wall, champagne in hand, talking to a woman in silver. I circled wide, keeping him in my peripheral vision.
A man intercepted me near a table laden with canapés. “The salmon's better than it looks. Everything else is cardboard.”
“Good to know.” I took one anyway, more for something to do with my hands.
“Thomas Dirk.” He didn't offer a handshake, just gestured with his glass toward the crowd. “Half the people here don't actually know Viktor.”
“Well now they do.”
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Though I suppose that's the point of a wedding.”
Harrow was still talking to the woman in silver, but their conversation looked like it was wrapping up.
“You should meet Dan,” Thomas continued. “He's over there arguing about the economy. Loves a good debate.”
He moved off before I could respond. I glanced back toward Harrow. He'd shifted position, now talking to a man in a silver mask near the champagne fountain.
I angled closer, stopped at a table between us. Close enough to catch fragments if they raised their voices.
“Is that canapé worth the risk?” A voice at my elbow. Male, younger, accent placing him somewhere north. He wore dark green, his mask pushed up. “Peter. And no, I don't know why I'm talking to strangers at weddings either. Occupational hazard.”
“Software?” I guessed.
“How'd you know?”
“Lucky guess.” I set the canapé down, glanced toward Harrow. “You know that bloke over there? Looks familiar.”
Peter followed my gaze. “Elliot Harrow. My firm tried to poach him two years ago. He turned us down flat. Said he preferred the independence of private practice.”
“Smart.”
“Or paranoid. Though in his line of work, probably the same thing.” Peter tilted his head. “You're doing that thing where you're working even at a wedding. I do the same thing. Bad habit.”
“Just observing.”
