Honestly, beats sitting in this apartment all day.
At least work pays. Doesn't make you feel like some inconvenient obligation that needs managing.
Five-forty p.m. I stood outside the Four Seasons main entrance.
Twin sets of revolving glass doors caught the sunset, throwing light everywhere. Doormen in crisp uniforms worked the line of black town cars, pulling doors open one after another. Everyone who stepped out wore money.
I wore my black suit.
The one I'd bought thinking it looked professional. The one I'd worn to every occasion that "required professional"—business translation gigs, volunteering at the Immigration Aid Center, all those nights Paul said, "There's a dinner thing tonight, come if you want, just throw something on."
Just throw something on.
Standing here now, I finally got what that meant.
It meant: what you wear doesn't matter, because who you are doesn't matter.
Six sharp. An events assistant led me into the ballroom.
I'd never been inside the Four Seasons main ballroom before. Walking in, I'll admit—my feet hesitated. Half a second.
Not from awe. I just needed time for my nervous system to absorb the space. Three tiers of crystal chandeliers, each strand trembling with fractured light in the warm glow. Ivory tablecloths. Silver flatware. White roses and eucalyptus, their scent clean and restrained. About eighty to ninety people filled the room. Conversation, laughter, champagne flutes clinking—all of it blending into an atmosphere that made outsiders feel like they had nowhere to stand.
My role in this space: translator. Staff. The person standing against the wall who speaks when needed and vanishes when not.
The assistant brought me to a work station near the main table. Tonight I'd be accompanying two members of the Rossi family. Mr. Rossi, seventy-two, one of the Rossi Group's founders, and his wife, Anna Rossi, an impeccably maintained Italian matriarch with razor-sharp eyes.
I introduced myself in Italian. Mrs. Rossi looked me over, head to toe. Her mouth curved slightly. She replied in Italian.
"Your Italian is very clean. Where did you study?"
"Boston University, language major," I said. "Italian was my third language."
She nodded, satisfied, and said something to Mr. Rossi. He glanced over. Nodded too.
Then the host announced tonight's main event.
I was helping Mrs. Rossi translate a French dish on the menu when, in my peripheral vision, the center of the ballroom cleared. Spotlights came up. The host raised his microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give our warmest congratulations to Mr. Vincent and Miss Rossi."
I heard the applause first. Then I looked up. Then I saw him.
Light blond hair. Charcoal suit. Down on one knee, holding out a ring. Paul Vincent, speaking fluent Italian.
"Diana, you are the most precious gift in my life. I will spend my life protecting you."
My first thought, absurdly: he speaks Italian? I never even heard him speak it.
Then my brain completely crashed.
I dropped my folder. Papers scattered across the gleaming ballroom floor, fanning out in a circle.
I crouched down to collect them. The whole time my brain wasn't there, but my hands were. I picked up every single page. Didn't miss one.
"You are the most precious gift in my life."
The library coffee counter. He'd turned around, seen me, and smiled that slight smile. "You go ahead, you were here first." His eyes that particular shade of gray-blue.
