The orchestra swelled into a waltz. Isabella moved through the crowd, charming investors and deflecting questions about Alistair’s absence with practiced ease.
A hand tapped her shoulder. “May I cut in?”
Isabella turned to find Sebastian Cross standing there. He wasn’t on the guest list, yet he wore a tuxedo that fit better than anyone else’s in the room.
“Mr. Cross,” Isabella smiled, though her blood ran cold. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed dancing.”
“I enjoy leading,” Cross replied, sweeping her onto the floor.
His grip was firm, his movements precise. As they spun near the edge of the room, his charming smile didn’t waver, but his whisper was venomous.
“This is a lovely charade, Mrs. Fotheringham,” Cross murmured in her ear. “But I know you pawned the silver to pay for the flowers. The ‘preliminary hold’ on your accounts becomes a full asset liquidation on Monday. Enjoy the music. It’s the last song the Titanic will ever play.”,.