Chapter 2
Her fingers tightened around my wrist and didn't let go.
I was on the marble at the base of the curved staircase, the cold seeping right through the thin satin of my dress. My knees had hit hard when I'd gone down. My left arm was locked around my daughter, her face pressed into my collarbone, her little white mary janes kicking once against my shin. My right wrist was caught in that grip, her nails biting in. The woman in the magenta gown was crouched over me, close enough I could smell her perfume and see the faint smirk still fixed in place, even as her eyes flicked up toward the crowd gathering under the chandeliers.
I tried to pull back. She held on.
"Let go," I whispered. My voice didn't carry. It barely left my throat.
She didn't. Her black strappy heel was still planted too close to my beige pump, pinning the hem of my champagne dress to the floor. The polished marble reflected the chandelier light in a long, warped smear beside us. Guests had stopped talking in that polite, blurred way and were just watching now, champagne glasses frozen halfway up.
Then I heard the sharp clicks of polished Oxfords on marble, fast and urgent, coming from behind her.
The man in the tuxedo reached us in three strides. I hadn't seen his face clearly until then — short dark hair, bow tie slightly crooked like he'd turned too fast. He didn't touch me first. He went straight for her hand on my wrist.
"Enough," he said. It was low and hard, not loud, but it cut through the ambience. "Let go of her. Now."
The woman in magenta looked up at him, and for a second her smirk didn't waver. She held my wrist a beat longer, just to show she could, her thumb pressing once more into the bone. Then she released me with a flick, like she was letting go of something dirty, and pushed herself up to stand.
The relief was instant and then painful. Blood rushed back into my hand. I pulled my arm to my chest, tucking it around my daughter with the other one, curling over her. My daughter made a small, confused sound against my neck and I rocked her once, breathing hard.
The woman stood over me still, her magenta halter gown catching the warm chandelier light, the waist cutout stark against her skin. She took one deliberate step back, then another, but she didn't retreat. She adjusted her black clutch under her arm and looked down at me with that same controlled expression, micro-smile in place, as if she was the one who'd been offended. She didn't apologize. She didn't explain. She just watched, claiming the space even as she gave it.
The man stepped between us. He didn't look at her again. He crouched, not touching me yet, his hand hovering near my elbow.
"Are you hurt? Is she okay?" he asked me, eyes quick on my daughter's white cardigan, then on my foot.
I couldn't answer. My foot throbbed where her heel had come down on it. I just nodded once and held my daughter tighter, my wavy reddish hair falling forward to curtain my face.
That's when I saw it. His other hand was closed around something. I hadn't noticed it when he rushed over — I'd been focused on his shoes, on getting free. Now, as he shifted to keep his body between me and the standing woman, his fingers opened.
A gold oval locket lay in his palm. The filigree engraving around the edge caught the light, ornate and worn smooth in places. It was open. Inside, behind a thin scratched cover, there was a small color portrait. I couldn't see who it was — the angle was wrong, and his thumb half-covered it — but the colors were vivid enough to catch my eye: flesh tones, a dab of blue. It swung slightly on its chain as his hand steadied.
I stared at it. It wasn't mine. I'd never seen it before, and yet the way he held it, so carefully, so urgently, made my stomach drop. The woman in magenta saw it too — I felt her gaze snap to his hand, and her smirk tightened just enough that I noticed.
"Where did you get this?" the man said, but he wasn't asking me. He turned his head just enough toward the woman standing behind him. His voice had dropped even lower.
She didn't answer. She just tilted her chin up, clutch held tighter, and let the silence do the work.
May you like
The man turned back fully and lifted the locket, holding it up toward the light, toward where the ballroom's photographer and the nearest guests would have a clear line of sight. His brow furrowed, his stare intense and fixed on that tiny portrait inside, as if trying to place a face he should know. The chandelier light flared on the gold.
I stayed where I was on the floor, out of focus behind him, shielding my daughter against my champagne dress, my beige pumps half-tucked under me, my wrist still burning where I'd been gripped. The woman in magenta was a few feet back now, watching us both, her black heels planted, her posture still controlled, still dominant. No one had moved to help me up. No one had spoken to fill the quiet. The locket was the only thing in sharp focus now, hanging in the air between his hand and the crowd, and I understood with a sudden, cold clarity that whatever had just happened with her foot on mine wasn't about clumsiness at all. It was about that locket. And now it was out where everyone could see it.
