Part 2: Grant adjusted one cufflink. “I’m only going to be helpful.”

“No, you’re going to be surgical.”

“That’s usually the same thing.”

He walked toward her before Preston could stop him. His pace was easy, expensive, practiced. People moved without realizing they were moving. He had that effect. In crowded rooms, space opened for him as if money itself had elbows.

The woman saw him coming, but she did not straighten. She did not smile. She simply turned her head when he stopped a few feet away.

Up close, the dress was more intricate than he had expected. The stitches were not crude. They were painstaking. Each flower had a dozen shades hidden inside it. Every line had been made by a human hand, which somehow irritated him more. Machines were clean. Machines did not beg for respect.

“Good evening,” Grant said.

“Good evening,” she replied.

Her voice was low, composed, American with the faintest trace of the mountains in a vowel she did not bother to sand down.

Grant gestured toward the embroidery with the kind of smile that had fooled senators and terrified junior partners.

“That’s quite a dress.”

“Thank you.”

“I was just wondering,” he continued, keeping his tone light enough to sound like conversation to anyone who wanted an excuse not to intervene, “whether you came for the gala or wandered in from a church craft fair.”

The air changed.

It was not dramatic. No one gasped loudly. No violin screeched to a stop. The quartet continued playing near the west balcony. Silverware still chimed against china. But the small circle around them tightened with attention. Preston, who had followed at a distance, covered his mouth with his glass.

The woman looked at Grant for a long moment.

He expected embarrassment. Anger, maybe. A sharp answer he could punish. He was prepared for all the normal human reactions. What he was not prepared for was the expression that crossed her face so quietly he almost missed it.

Pity.

Not weakness. Not wounded pride. Pity.

It struck him like a slap delivered by someone who did not care enough to raise her hand.

“How revealing,” she said.

That was all.

Then she lifted her glass of water, turned away, and walked toward the far end of the ballroom, where a small set of stairs led to the stage.

Grant stared after her, heat creeping up his neck.

Preston appeared at his side, laughing under his breath. “How revealing? That’s it?….”

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