The warmth of the kitchen hit me first, along with the smell of roasted meats and expensive champagne.

Dozens of staff members were rushing back and forth, carrying silver platters.

No one looked at me.

I picked up a tray of champagne flutes from a metal counter and walked toward the double doors.

As the doors swung open, the sound of a live orchestra washed over me.

The ballroom was filled with hundreds of people in tuxedos and evening gowns.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a bright, golden light over the crowd.

And there, standing near the grand staircase, was Tessa Whitmore.

She was wearing a stunning white dress, laughing as she spoke to a group of wealthy guests.

My hand shook, the champagne glasses clinking together on my tray.

I forced myself to look away, scanning the room for any sign of Rowan.

Suddenly, a hand gripped my elbow from behind.

“You’re late with those drinks,” a sharp voice said.

I turned slowly, my heart pounding in my chest.

A tall woman with a tight bun and a clipboard stared down at me.