A powerful Chicago socialite was about to slap an elderly woman in a wheelchair when a young waitress grabbed her wrist—and risked everything to stop her.

The Grand Staircase of the Art Institute of Chicago was draped in black velvet and illuminated by thousands of micro-LED lights that resembled a canopy of cold winter stars.

Emma Carter stood at the landing of the second floor, looking down at the sea of tuxedos and backless evening gowns moving beneath the vaulted ceilings of the European Painting wing.

She wore a gown of deep emerald silk—not the garish, clinging velvet Victoria had worn, but a classic, high-necked dress with long, fitted sleeves and an open back that had been tailored to her frame in four hours by a silent Italian seamstress Vincent had summoned to the estate. Her dark hair was pinned up in a clean, elegant chignon, secured with two tortoiseshell combs that had belonged to Vincent’s grandmother.

Beside her, seated in an ultralight carbon-fiber wheelchair, was Isabella Moretti.

The older woman looked regal. She wore a floor-length gown of midnight blue, a three-strand pearl choker around her throat, and white satin gloves that completely hid the tremor in her hands. Her posture was erect, her chin lifted with the cold, immovable pride of a woman who had spent forty years looking down from the bridge of container ships.

Standing two paces behind them, his hands clasped behind the small of his back, was Vincent.

He hadn't spoken more than ten words to Emma since they arrived. But every time she glanced at him, she found his dark eyes resting on her with a watchful, protective gravity that made her heart skip against her ribs.

"Breathe, Miss Carter," Vincent said quietly, his voice reaching only her ear over the roar of the string orchestra playing in the gallery ahead. "You look as though you are preparing to storm a machine-gun nest."

Emma didn't turn around. She kept her eyes on the crowd below. "In Bridgeport, when people look at you with smiles that wide, it means someone is holding a tire iron behind their back."

"A practical education," Vincent murmured. "Hold fast to it tonight. Julian Vance arrived ten minutes ago. He is currently speaking with the chairman of the proxy committee in the modern wing."

"Did Marcus find the certificate?" Emma whispered.

"No," Vincent replied, his jaw tightening slightly. "Victoria’s locker at the Racquet Club was emptied yesterday morning. Julian has it on his person. He intends to present it to the board during the toast at nine o'clock."

"Vincent," Isabella interrupted, her voice firm, clear, completely unclouded by the fog that usually claimed her in the evenings. "Stop whispering like conspirators. Take me to the Monet gallery. I wish to see the water lilies before the wolves begin their barking."

Emma gripped the leather-wrapped handles of the wheelchair and began navigating the crowd.

The reaction to their entrance was immediate. Conversations stuttered and died. Heads turned. People parted before Isabella’s chair like water before the prow of an icebreaker.

Emma kept her head high. She recognized half the faces from the Drake—the same aldermen, the same hedge fund managers, the same women with diamond-encrusted collars who had watched her get fired five days ago. Now, they looked at her with a mixture of confusion, resentment, and a strange, cautious deference. She wasn't the waitress with the tray anymore. She was the woman standing at the right hand of the Moretti dynasty.

At the entrance to the Impressionist wing, Victoria Langford stepped out from behind a limestone pillar.

She wore a crimson gown that looked like a fresh wound against the pale stone walls. Her hair was down, falling in polished waves over her bare shoulders. She held a flute of champagne in her left hand; her right wrist was still wrapped in a discreet, flesh-colored silk bandage.

"Isabella," Victoria said, her voice dripping with an oily, theatrical sweetness. "How marvelous to see you out of the house. We were all so concerned after your... episode on Saturday."

Isabella didn't even blink. "Victoria. I see your arm has healed sufficiently for you to lift a glass of free liquor. Your grandfather would be proud. He always preferred the bottles he didn't have to pay for."

Several guests nearby smothered sudden, nervous laughs behind their hands.

Victoria’s eyes narrowed into slits of green venom. Her gaze slid from Isabella to Emma, traveling slowly down the emerald silk dress to the tortoiseshell combs in Emma’s hair.

"And you brought your maid," Victoria sneered. "How quaint. I suppose when one’s mind is decaying, one loses the ability to distinguish between society and the domestic help."

Emma took a step forward, placing herself squarely between Victoria and Isabella’s chair.

"Good evening, Miss Langford," Emma said, her voice smooth, level, and entirely devoid of fear. "I see you're keeping your hands to yourself tonight. That’s very wise. The floors here are marble; if you fall, the sound carries."

Victoria took a sharp, furious breath, her face turning crimson. She opened her mouth to speak, but a tall, slender figure stepped up beside her.

Julian Vance.

He wore a bespoke tuxedo of midnight grosgrain, his smile smooth and dead as a porcelain plate. He gave a slight, mockingly formal bow toward Isabella.

"Mrs. Moretti. Vincent," Julian said, his pale eyes flickering over Emma for half a second before dismissing her. "A magnificent evening. I trust you're prepared for the board’s announcements at nine? The proxy committee has received some... rather extraordinary new documentation regarding the 1994 capitalization shares."

Vincent stepped up beside Emma, his shoulder lightly brushing hers. The proximity was electric, a sudden, solid wall of heat in the chilly gallery.

"Documentation presented by a man who holds no equity in this trust is called toilet paper, Julian," Vincent said calmly.

Julian’s smile didn't waver. "The proxy committee’s legal counsel disagrees. In twenty minutes, Vincent, the Moretti voting bloc will be reduced to thirty-one percent. And the chairmanship will pass to the Vance Capital syndicate."

He turned to Victoria, offering his arm. "Come, my dear. We should leave the family to enjoy their final moments of authority."

As they turned to walk away, Victoria’s shoulder brushed against Emma’s.

It was a clumsy, deliberate bump—the kind of petty, physical contact designed to provoke. Emma didn't react. She stood her ground, her shoulder absorbing the impact without yielding an inch.

Victoria glared at her, spun on her heel, and walked away into the crowd, her crimson train dragging across the stone floor.

Emma watched them retreat. Her breath felt tight in her chest.

Then she felt something strange.