The night of the Gala, the penthouse was a flurry of activity. William was already in his tuxedo, waiting in the foyer, checking his watch.
“I can’t go, William,” Sophie called from the guest room. “I don’t have anything appropriate.”
“Check the closet,” Isabella Rossi’s voice came from the tablet Sophie was holding. Even from Italy, the former housekeeper was orchestrating the household. “The green garment bag. It was a guest gown from the old days. It will fit you.”
Sophie unzipped the bag. Inside was a gown of emerald silk, simple yet devastatingly elegant.
Ten minutes later, the door to the guest room opened.
William looked up from his phone and stopped breathing.
Sophie stood there, the emerald dress hugging her frame, her hair pinned up to reveal the curve of her neck. She didn’t look like the shy music teacher or the “Spy Nanny.” She looked regal.
“Is it… is it too much?” Sophie asked, touching the fabric nervously.
William crossed the room, his eyes dark with an emotion he hadn’t let himself feel in a year. He offered her his arm.
“No,” William said, his voice rough. “It’s perfect.”
He led her to the elevator, unaware that in Italy, Marcus was racing to the airport with a scarf, and in the shadows of the Gala, Cynthia Sharpe was sharpening her knives.