Chapter 1

The silver watch was the only thing on Richard that cost more than Victoria's earrings, and even that was hidden beneath his frayed left cuff as his frail hand rested on the armrest of the wheelchair.

Victoria's fingers curled around the push handles before she even decided to act. The old man had been sitting by the champagne table for eleven minutes—she had counted—his gray wool jacket hanging loose on his narrow shoulders, his pale eyes watching the chandelier as if he had never seen crystal before. Around her, the gala glittered: fifteen of the city's wealthiest patrons, silk and diamonds and laughter that rang off the white marble columns. He did not belong here. He smelled faintly of soap and old paper, and his shoes were scuffed at the toes.

"This trash pollutes my hotel," Victoria announced to no one in particular, loud enough for the nearest guests to hear. She was rewarded with a few startled glances, a woman's hand rising to cover a pearl necklace.

Richard turned his head slowly. Up close, his face was weathered but composed, his white hair neatly combed. He did not look afraid. He looked like a man waiting for a train that was already late.

"Get out, you filthy beggar," Victoria said, and she shoved.

The chair's front wheels lifted first, then the whole frame tilted left with a mechanical groan that seemed to hang in the air for a full second. Richard's body folded sideways, his hands grasping at nothing, one silver watch scraping the marble with a screech that made several guests flinch. The chair hit the floor with a sharp crack—metal on stone, loud as a gunshot in the vaulted lobby—and Richard landed on his back, the air driven from his lungs in a thin gasp.

A champagne flute shattered somewhere to the right. Glass skittered across the polished floor in bright splinters near the overturned chair's spinning wheel.

Victoria stood over him, one hand on her hip, her beige pantsuit immaculate, her gold earrings catching the chandelier's blaze. She laughed—a short, clipped sound, more performance than mirth. "He belongs in the gutter," she said to a guest beside her, a man in a black tuxedo who looked away rather than meet her eyes.