1
IRIS
The centerpiece is off by three inches.
I notice it the way I notice everything—immediately, viscerally, with the particular brand of low-grade panic that has fueled my entire career. Three inches to the left and the massive arrangement of white peonies and trailing eucalyptus will align perfectly with the crystal chandelier above it, creating the kind of effortless symmetry that makes people feel calm without knowing why.
Three inches wrong, and it's chaos. Invisible chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
"Moving the flowers," I announce to no one in particular, already crossing the ballroom floor in heels that cost more than my first car. The Langham's grand ballroom stretches around me in cream and gold, two hundred chairs arranged in precise rows, the late afternoon Chicago light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. In three hours, Apex Dynamics will announce their merger with a German tech firm to a room full of investors, journalists, and people who measure success in stock prices. In three hours, I will be invisible, which is exactly how I like it.
But right now, there are three inches standing between me and perfection.
"Iris." My assistant Priya materializes at my elbow, tablet clutched to her chest. "The client's asking about the bar placement again."
"Tell her the bar stays where it is." I grip the heavy crystal vase and shift it left, then step back to check. Better. "If we move it closer to the doors, people will congregate there and block the entrance during the cocktail hour. She'll thank me later."
"She seems pretty insistent—"
"She hired me to make her look good. This is me making her look good." I brush a fallen petal from the white linen tablecloth and turn to face Priya, summoning what I think of as my meeting face—pleasant, professional, absolutely immovable. "Tell her I'll come find her in twenty minutes to walk through the final details. That'll give her something to look forward to."
Priya nods and disappears into the controlled chaos of setup. Catering staff stream past with trays of glassware. The AV team runs cables along the baseboards with the grim efficiency of surgeons. Somewhere behind the service doors, the kitchen is plating three hundred portions of seared scallops with precisely two ounces of champagne beurre blanc each.
I have a checklist for all of it. Multiple checklists, actually, color-coded and cross-referenced. The weight of my tablet in my hand feels like a talisman against disaster.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it—probably my mother calling to confirm our Sunday dinner, which we've had every week for six years and which she still feels the need to confirm as if I might suddenly develop amnesia or a social life. I'll callher back later, after this event is flawless, after I've proven once again that Iris Beaumont-Clark delivers nothing less than perfection.
The phone buzzes again. And again.
I fish it out with a sigh, expecting to see Mom lighting up the screen with her particular brand of persistent anxiety. Instead, I see an unknown international number. A French number, if I'm reading the country code right.
France.
Something cold moves through my chest. I silence the call and shove the phone back into my pocket, but my hand is shaking slightly, which is ridiculous. I don't know anyone in France. I've never even been to France, despite being half French, despite my mother's flawless Parisian accent and the way she used to sing me French lullabies before she stopped singing altogether.
The phone buzzes a fourth time.
"For God's sake," I mutter, and this time I answer, pressing the phone to my ear as I stride toward a quiet corner near the service entrance. "Hello?"
"Mademoiselle Beaumont-Clark?" The voice is male, older, with an accent that sounds like it belongs in a film about vintage wine and impossible romance. "Iris Beaumont-Clark?"
"Speaking. Who is this?"
"My name is Henri Duval. I am a notaire—a notary—in Provence. I am calling regarding the estate of Marguerite Beaumont."
Marguerite. My grandmother's name, spoken aloud for the first time in years, maybe decades. The woman in the photographs my mother burned. The return address on letters that were never answered. The ghost who haunted my childhood with her absence.
"I'm sorry," I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears, too controlled, too professional for the way my heart is hammering. "I'm not sure I understand. I don't have any connection to—"
"Madame Beaumont has passed away, mademoiselle. Six months ago now. I apologize for the delay in reaching you; it took some time to locate your contact information."
Six months. My grandmother—a woman I've never met, never spoken to, never been allowed to acknowledge—has been dead for six months, and I'm finding out in a hotel ballroom while a catering manager argues with someone about shrimp temperature.
"I see," I manage. "I'm... I'm sorry for the loss."
The words taste like ash. What loss? You can't lose something you never had.
"Madame Beaumont has named you in her will, mademoiselle. You have inherited a portion of her estate—a property in Provence. The Domaine des Lavandes."
