The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of black silk, diamonds, and low, buzzing conversation.

The walls were draped in heavy white velvet that absorbed the ambient noise of the crowd.

Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling, casting a sharp, glittering light over Manhattan’s elite.

Waiters in white gloves moved seamlessly through the tables, carrying silver trays of vintage champagne.

At the far end of the room, a raised stage stood ready for the charity auction.

This was Khloe Dupont’s annual gala.

It was the most exclusive social event of the winter season.

And I was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes, managing the press and the live-stream broadcast.

I walked toward the media control booth tucked into the back corner of the mezzanine.

“Kate,” a deep, quiet voice murmured from the shadows of an arched doorway.

I stopped.

Arthur Sterling stepped out of the darkness.

His tailored black tuxedo was pristine, his silver hair catching the light of the chandeliers.

His dark eyes searched my face with a calculating intensity.

“Did you get it?” he asked.