Chapter 3

Vivian followed Manager Ortiz out of his office and into the corridor.

The glass door swung shut behind them with a soft click, and the sound of the ballroom music grew louder as they walked. She could hear the bass line through the walls, the thump of drums, the high shimmer of the trumpet player who had missed his note an hour ago and was now playing as if determined to make up for it.

She stopped him before they reached the ballroom doors.

"One thing," she said.

He turned.

"Tell me the exact order," she said. "What did you stop?"

He consulted the folder. "The band overtime ends at midnight. They'll finish their current set and not come back. The after-party wine package is voided as of midnight, so the bar will only serve what's already been opened."

"Already been opened," she repeated.

"Yes. The stock that's already in the bar area, it stays. What's in the storeroom, it goes back to the vendor."

She nodded slowly, counting off the items in her head. "The band stops at twelve. The bar is only what's already out. Transportation runs in the morning."

"The bus runs at nine. The brunch is pending confirmation from the hotel. The honeymoon suite is canceled."

"Who knows about the suite?"

"The hotel manager and I."

"Then it stays unknown," she said. "Just for the next few minutes."

He understood. He did not ask questions. He had been in this business for twenty years and had learned that the best thing a professional could do was stay silent and follow instructions.

They walked together toward the ballroom doors.

Through the narrow windows beside the double doors, Vivian could see the party continuing. Sonia was at the center of the dance floor, her strapless ivory gown spinning as a groomsman twirled her, the pearl necklace at her throat catching the chandelier light in hard white flashes. Neil stood at the edge of the dance floor with a glass in his hand, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his eyes not on his bride but on the doors.

Vivian stopped breathing for a second.

In the moment she met his eyes through the glass, he saw her. He straightened. The glass in his hand stopped halfway to his lips. He looked at her the way he had looked at her when he was seven years old and had broken a neighbor's window — guilty, afraid, and wanting her to fix it.