Elise’s sister wore a champagne-colored gown that made her look poured into wealth. Her hair was swept into a flawless twist. Her diamond bracelet flashed every time she lifted her glass, and the engagement ring on her finger was so large it seemed less like jewelry than a family announcement.
“Elise,” Bianca said, smiling as if cameras were watching. “You came.”
“You invited me.”
“Daddy invited you,” Bianca corrected softly. “I simply didn’t object.”
Milo, unaware of the blade beneath the silk, held up his card. “Hi, Aunt Bianca.”
Bianca bent just enough to kiss the air above his head. “Look at you. Almost grown.”
“I’m eight.”
“Practically a man.”
He laughed, pleased.
Elise watched her sister’s face. Bianca had always known how to perform warmth. She could make strangers believe they had been loved.
“Mother’s in the dining room panicking over flowers,” Bianca said. “Father is in the library with the Whitcombs.”
“The investors?”
“And Preston’s family.” Bianca’s eyes glimmered. “It’s a very important night.”
“Thanksgiving usually is.”
“For some of us, everything is important.”
The words landed exactly where Bianca intended them to.
Before Elise could answer, Marianne Vale hurried across the marble floor with a smile that looked pinned to her face. She wore emerald silk, pearls at her throat, and the strained expression of a woman determined to keep a table from tipping over while pretending she was arranging flowers.
“Elise, sweetheart.” Marianne kissed her daughter’s cheek. “You made it.”
“Milo wanted to come.”
“Of course.” Marianne touched Milo’s shoulder. “Hello, darling. You look handsome.”
“I made Grandpa a card.”
“How thoughtful.” Marianne’s eyes flicked toward the library, where Sterling Vale’s laugh rose above the hum of the party. “That’s very sweet. We’ll find the right moment to give it to him.”
Milo nodded seriously.
Elise knew what the right moment meant.
It meant not now.
It meant not in front of people who mattered.
It meant not unless Sterling was in a generous mood, which meant not unless someone more powerful was watching.
Marianne took Elise’s hand and lowered her voice. “Please be careful tonight.”
Elise almost pulled away. “We just walked in.”
“I know. I know. But your father has been under enormous pressure. The board is nervous. There are rumors. Some of the lenders are here. Preston’s family is here. This dinner needs to feel stable.”
“And I make it unstable?”
Marianne’s smile faltered. “You know that isn’t what I mean.”
“It is exactly what you mean.”
“Elise.”
Milo looked up, sensing the change in her tone.
Elise swallowed the rest. She had not come to fight. She had come because her son still wanted a grandfather, and because a part of her, a smaller part than before but not yet dead, wanted one last chance to see whether Sterling Vale was capable of being human when no profit depended on it.
“We’ll behave,” Elise said.
Marianne exhaled as if that were all she had asked for.
For the first hour, Elise survived by making herself useful.
She helped a server steady a tray of cranberry tartlets. She found Milo sparkling cider when the bartender ignored him. She spoke politely to cousins who asked where she was living “these days” in the same tone they might use to discuss a missing heirloom. She endured a conversation with an aunt who kept saying, “You look tired,” as if fatigue were a character flaw.
Milo tried to be brave.
He stood straight. He said thank you. He held his gold-marker turkey card against his chest and kept glancing toward the library, where Sterling stood surrounded by men in dark suits.
Sterling Vale was sixty-four, tall, silver-haired, and broad across the shoulders in a way that made his age seem less like decline than strategy. He had built Vale Meridian Group from inherited property and borrowed money into a real estate, shipping, and private investment empire that appeared in magazines, political fundraisers, and lawsuits with equal ease.
He had a voice that filled rooms before he entered them.
He had a smile that made people feel chosen until they realized they were being purchased.
Once, Elise had adored him.
As a child, she would wait on the stairs when he came home late, hoping he would notice she had stayed awake. Sometimes he would lift her onto his shoulder and call her his sharp little star. Sometimes he would walk past without seeing her.
The second kind of night taught her more.
Milo tugged Elise’s hand. “Can I give him the card now?”
Elise looked across the room. Sterling was laughing at something Preston Whitcomb had said. Preston was Bianca’s fiancé, polished and handsome, with the slightly bored confidence of a man born into money and convinced that counted as experience.
“Maybe after dinner,” Elise said.
“But what if I forget?”
“You won’t.”
Milo bit his lip. “What if he leaves before I do?”