Chapter 2

The silence on the other end of the line lasted four full seconds.

Vivian counted them the way she counted everything — carefully, methodically, leaving no room for error. She stood in the middle of the grey restroom, phone pressed to her ear, watching herself in the mirror as if she needed confirmation that she was real.

"Mrs. Hartley," Manager Ortiz said, his voice lowered now, the clipped professional tone replaced by something more careful, "may I ask what you mean by 'canceled'?"

"I mean the contracts I signed," she said, the words clear and steady. "The ones with my name on them. The bar, the band's overtime, transportation, the honeymoon suite, the farewell brunch. I want to know which of those I can still stop tonight."

Another pause. She could hear him typing in the background — a keyboard clicking softly, the sound of someone checking records in real time.

"I'm in my office," he said finally. "The glass-walled one at the end of the corridor. Could you come down here, Mrs. Hartley?"

"I could," she said.

"Please do."

She hung up without saying goodbye, a habit she had picked up in her years of running the family's small property management office. Goodbyes were for people who had time to waste, and Vivian Hartley had just discovered that the night ahead of her would require every minute.

She smoothed down the front of her navy dress, checked her reflection one more time, and walked out of the restroom into the corridor.

The corridor was long and dim, paneled in warm mahogany wood with brass numbers on each door. Carpet muffled her footsteps. The air was cooler here, away from the chandeliers and the heat of two hundred bodies dancing. She passed the ballroom's double doors and heard the music swell behind them — the band had switched to something fast, a pop song that made the crowd laugh and clap.

She did not stop.

The manager's office was at the very end of the corridor, its walls made entirely of glass so that anyone walking past could see in. A desk lamp glowed on the desk, casting a warm pool of light over a stack of folders. Manager Ortiz stood beside the desk, one hand resting on a large black binder, his black hair slicked back and his grey suit crisp even at this hour.

He looked up as she entered, his gold name tag catching the light.

"Mrs. Hartley," he said, and his voice was lower now, careful. "Your cheek."

"It's fine," she said, and took a seat in the chair across from his desk without being offered one.

He sat down across from her, folded his hands on the desk, and looked at her with the patient expression of a man who had managed venues for twenty years and seen every kind of disaster happen inside their walls.

"I pulled your contracts while you were walking," he said. "You have six service addenda still active under your authorization."

"I know," she said.

He opened the black binder and turned it so she could see the pages. Spread across the desk were printed agreements, each one stamped with the venue's logo and bearing her signature in crisp blue ink. She recognized them all.

"Extended bar service," he said, tapping the first page. "Band overtime. Guest transportation. Honeymoon suite. Farewell brunch. And the after-party wine package."

"The honeymoon suite," she said slowly. "Which hotel?"

"The Meridian, three blocks down. We book it as a courtesy for our wedding packages."

"That's where the wedding night will happen."