Caroline Mercer’s composure cracked like thin ice. “Marcello, please — she’s a child, she’s—”
“Don’t.” The word fell from him like a stone. “Don’t lie to me again.”
And then — as if the night itself had decided it could not bear one more second of pretense — the great double doors of the ballroom swung open.
Chapter 3 — The Woman in the Doorway
Every head turned.
Standing in the doorway, framed by the golden glow of the corridor behind her, was a woman in a beige trench coat thrown over a hospital gown. A white cervical collar braced her neck. Scratches marked her face. She was barefoot, trembling, and utterly unafraid.
She walked forward — slowly, painfully, one step at a time — down the long aisle of white flowers, until she stood face to face with the woman in pink.
“Security,” the woman in pink hissed, her voice shrill. “Get her out of here!”
The injured woman did not flinch. She lifted her chin and said, in a voice that carried to every corner of the silent ballroom: