The Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel had been transformed into a Venetian carnival. Silk drapery hung from the ceiling, and a thousand white orchids–William’s demand–filled the air with a cloying, heavy scent. It was a spectacle of wealth meant to announce to the world that the Croft dynasty was healed.
William moved through the crowd in a gold-trimmed domino mask, his hand gripping Sophie’s arm with a possessive, manic energy. He was playing the role of the resurrected king, and he needed his queen to smile.
“Keep your chin up,” William whispered, turning them toward a flashing bank of cameras. “They need to see the joy, Sophie. They need to believe it.”
Sophie, wearing a silver mask that felt more like a muzzle, forced a smile. She felt invisible. To the world, she was the lucky nanny who stole the billionaire’s heart. To William, she was the cure for his grief. To Beatrice, she was a pawn.
She scanned the room, feeling the walls closing in. Near the exit, far away from the champagne towers and the press, stood a man in a simple black suit and a plain mask. He wasn’t looking at the cameras; he was looking at her.
It was Dr. Lucas Hale.
He raised his glass slightly–a small, silent gesture of solidarity. In a room of hundreds, he was the only one who saw the woman behind the silver mask, the woman who liked stale donuts and quiet breakrooms. Sophie felt a pang of longing so sharp it nearly brought her to her knees. She was trapped in a fairy tale, but she was looking for the exit.