“The east parlor is running low on champagne,” she hissed, her voice cutting through the orchestral music.

“Right away, ma’am,” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the silver edge of my tray.

She gave me a brief, suspicious look before turning to yell at another server.

I took a slow breath and stepped deeper into the warm, crowded ballroom.

The scent of expensive perfume, damp wool, and burning wax candles filled the air.

I kept my head lowered, but my eyes scanned the perimeter of the room.

Outside, rain lashed against the tall glass windows, blurring the lights of the city below.

Tessa Whitmore stood near the center of the floor, surrounded by three men in tailored tuxedos.

Her white silk dress caught the light of the crystal chandeliers with every move she made.

She laughed at something one of the men said, her diamonds catching the glare of a photographer’s flash.

I looked toward the heavy oak doors at the back of the room, waiting for Rowan.

My fingers clutched the bottom of the tray so hard my knuckles turned white.