Henry’s fingers were still dancing lightly across my shoulder. “As tempting as that sounds, I’m afraid I need to make an appearance, if only for a couple of hours.”
“Shame,” I murmured.
His hand slid from my shoulder and trailed down my arm to my hand. Our fingers intertwined instantly in a way that felt completely natural. He gave me an encouraging smile, as though he could sense my nervousness despite my best efforts to hide it. I didn’t know the other guests at the ball, but I’d dealt with plenty of absurdly wealthy people in the past few weeks. It was impossible to ignore how different I was—and they never failed to remind me of it. They exuded an old-money vibe that couldn’t be imitated.
We took the lift down to the lobby, where voices and laughter filled the air. I had never seen it so lively before. Dozens of masked guests, dressed in elegant suits and gowns, made their way to the ballroom. Some outfits looked like they had come straight from a fairy tale—one woman even wore a tiara. The masks were colourful and varied, and it was clear that most people wore custom-made pieces like Henry rather than last-minute masks made of cheap lace and faux feathers like mine. Doubt crept in. Had I made amistake by not taking full advantage of Henry’s credit card? But it was too late for regrets now.
Henry gave my hand a squeeze and led me into the throng. Waiters from the restaurant, which was closed for the night, glided through the crowd with trays, offering guests flutes of champagne. Henry took one, but I declined, too nervous to drink on an empty stomach. It wasn’t long before people began to recognise Henry. They nodded in greeting and smiled at him through their masks, while I drew curious glances as guests tried to place me. Although the mask didn’t conceal much, the dress and makeup had transformed me from the girl in those McDonald’s photos. It would probably take a while for them to connect the dots.
Henry steered me confidently through the lobby. The double doors of the ballroom stood wide open, and the air buzzed with anticipation and excitement. The ballroom had been completely transformed as well. When Henry had shown me the scratch on the floor, the space had been empty, every step echoing off the walls. Tonight, floral arrangements adorned pillars, and while the tables were still pushed to the sides of the room to create a big dance floor, they were elegantly set rather than hidden beneath sheets. Upholstered chairs were dotted around, offering people a place to rest their feet. A band played onstage, and although the evening had only just begun, people were already dancing.
“Wow. It’s stunning,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The downside to finally having a proper haircut was that I could no longer tuck it neatly behind my ears.
Henry smiled and gently nudged me into the ballroom away from the entrance. A waitress floated past with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I grabbed two to line my stomach in preparation for the alcohol, and we went to find our seats. Most guests were millingaround or dancing, but everyone had an assigned seat—it was probably expected at such an expensive event. No sooner had we sat down than a waiter appeared and asked if we wanted drinks. I ordered a colourful cocktail, and Henry asked for a glass of water.
“Good evening, Henry.”
My shoulders tensed. I recognised Amanda Darlington’s authoritative voice immediately. Of course Henry’s parents were here. It was their ball too, after all. What else had I expected? My heart began to race when Mrs. Darlington stepped closer. She was wearing a cream-coloured gown that looked almost like a wedding dress and was accompanied by Mr. Darlington. I recognised his face from countless newspaper articles—and because, despite the mask, he was the spitting image of Henry.
Henry rose from his chair to greet his parents, and I quickly followed suit, assuming it was the polite thing to do. Maybe. I had no idea. “Hello, Mum.” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek before extending a hand to his father, shaking it with the formality of a business partner at a meeting.
Mr. Darlington ignored me. “Have you seen Ethan?”
“I don’t think he’s here,” Henry replied.
His dad pursed his lips. “Why not?”
“It’s not his kind of event,” Henry said with a shrug. “If you wanted Ethan and his friends to be here, we should have thought about hiring strippers and serving weed.”
I laughed, but Mr. Darlington clearly didn’t find it funny.
“Who is your ravishing date?” Mrs. Darlington interjected. She smiled at me and held out her hand as if we didn’t know each other. It dawned on me then that she didn’t recognise me behind my mask.
Henry slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me close to him, but not even his proximity could calm my frantic flutter of nerves. “This is Kate. Kate, these are my parents, Amanda and Richard.”
His mum’s mouth slackened. “Miss Hamilton. I didn’t recognise you for a moment. But I see it now,” she added, wrinkling her nose as she looked me up and down, clearly unimpressed by what I was wearing.
I looked down and wondered once again if I should have spent more on my outfit.
“You’ve already met?” Henry asked, surprised.
“Yes, we met when she wascleaningthe penthouse.” She emphasised the word as if to remind Henry of my position at the hotel. “We had a conversation. But evidently, Miss Hamilton wasn’t listening.”
An unspoken threat lurked beneath her words.
Mr. Darlington, who had been sipping his whisky, paused mid-motion and lowered his glass. His eyes, just as blue as Henry’s, narrowed beneath his mask. “This is the cleaning lady everyone has been talking about?”
“Yes,” his wife answered curtly.
Mr. Darlington’s gaze darted from me to Henry. While his mum’s displeasure seemed to be directed at me, his dad looked disappointed in Henry. “Does Vivian know you’ve brought her with you?”
“No. It’s none of her business who my date is.”
“How is she supposed to do her job when you refuse to cooperate with her?”
Henry’s jaw twitched. “It’s her job to make you look like an innocent angel, not to judge my love life.”
“ItisVivian’s job if you turn up with someone like her,” Mr. Darlington retorted, gesturing at me with his whisky glass, as if there were any doubt who he meant.
