“I’m not defending him,” she said.

She took a step closer, her slippers whispering against the hardwood floor.

“Your attorney, Grace, cornered me in the gallery twenty minutes ago.”

I kept my face expressionless, though a cold satisfaction settled in my chest.

“Grace is very thorough,” I said.

“She told me what will happen to me,” Sloane said, her voice trembling.

“She said the Celestia gown is registered as an historic estate asset.”

“It is,” Matteo said, his voice hard. “It belongs to the Bennett foundation.”

“She said I will be named as an active co-conspirator in grand theft,” Sloane whispered.

She looked down at her hands, which were shaking.

“She told me my career, my family’s name, everything will be destroyed by morning.”

“That is the consequence of wearing stolen property,” I said.

Outside, the wind whipped a branch of the old elm tree against the windowpane with a sharp, rhythmic tapping.

The digital clock on the iPad changed to ten-eighteen.

One hour and forty-two minutes remained.

“I didn’t know,” Sloane pleaded, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Harrison told me the dress was his to give.”