Derek’s parents, Charles and Beatrice, stepped onto the heated tile of the foyer.

Beatrice looked immaculate in her mink coat, her eyes immediately scanning the room before landing on me.

“Monica,” she said, her gaze dropping instantly to the heavy black fiberglass cast on my right arm. “What on earth?”

“Hello, Mother,” Derek said, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. “We had a bit of an accident on the driveway yesterday.”

“A terrible slip on the black ice,” I added, holding my arm slightly elevated, resting it against my waist so the dark, rigid cast contrasted sharply with my emerald green dress.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Beatrice murmured, though her tone held more mild annoyance at the disruption than actual sympathy. “On the eve of such an important dinner, too.”

“Monica insisted we didn’t cancel,” Derek said, his hand returning to my shoulder, his thumb pressing firmly into my collarbone. “She knows how much Richard’s visit means to the firm.”

Charles shook Derek’s hand, his eyes lingering on my cast for a second longer than his wife’s had.