As if the night could be reduced to smiling at the right people, using the right fork, and pretending your conscience had not just saved a man’s life.
You turned off your phone for the last five minutes of the drive to the Whitmore estate. Andrew’s messages kept flashing in your mind anyway, each one smaller and colder than the last. Be charming. Don’t overexplain. My mother hates excuses.
By the time you reached the iron gates, your hands still smelled faintly like hospital soap. Your black dress was wrinkled from kneeling on pavement beside a stranger, and the hem was damp where melted snow had soaked through. You checked your reflection in the rearview mirror and saw a woman who looked less like a future bride and more like someone who had just stepped out of a disaster.
