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I remain in my chair beside Mr. Stanley. I smile when necessary. I nod when spoken to.

Eventually, mercifully, the evening ends.

Or at least it does for me.

People are still milling around the ballroom when I stand, but Mr. Stanley has already been captured by another donor, and no one seems to care what happens to me now that my usefulness has run out.

I find my way to the entrance, clutch in hand, glass bracelet cold against my wrist.

A line of cars waits along the drive. Drivers stand near open doors, checking names and speaking quietly into earpieces. Somewhere among them is the town car the Vexleys reserved for me.

The one with leather seats and champagne.

I take out my phone, open a rideshare app, and order the cheapest option available.

The wait time is seven minutes. It’ll arrive exactly at midnight.

Fine.

I walk down the steps and past the valets, past the gleaming town cars until I reach the edge of the property. My feet hurt. My body aches. The night wind slips over my bare shoulders and makes me shiver.

My ride arrives seven minutes later on the dot, and I get in. The car smells like fast food.

Once back at Vexley House, I steal quietly to my room through the servants’ entrance.

The second the door closes behind me, the last of my strength leaves. I set the clutch on the small dresser and reach behind myself for the zipper. It takes me three tries, but eventually I contort myself into the right position to get it all the way down.

The silver fabric slides down my body and pools around my feet.

I should hang it up.

Instead, I step out of it and leave it on the floor.

I crawl into bed with my makeup still on and my hair still half pinned, the bracelet cold against my wrist and the ache of Nathaniel still between my legs.

I stare at the wall.

I expect to cry.

I don’t.

So that was sex.

So that was Nathaniel Vexley.

So that was my one night in the sun.

22

NATHANIEL

My phone starts ringing at 6:12 in the morning. I know the exact time because I’m already awake.

Sleep came in small increments. Ten minutes. Twenty. Long enough to fall into a dream where silver fabric slid through my fingers and Ella Hart looked at me with trusting eyes. Then wounded eyes.

I wake with my jaw clenched and sheets tangled around my legs.

By the time the phone rings, I’m lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.