Chapter 9
The dinner had been on the calendar for weeks. I could hear Vanessa on the phone that morning confirming the catering, the string quartet, the extra waitstaff. The estate was going to host twenty of Richard's foundation donors in the ballroom, and all the warm light in the hallway had been polished to look effortless.
At four o'clock Richard found me in the laundry room refolding napkins. My hands were wrapped now, white gauze taped at the wrists, ointment underneath that made my skin throb with every movement.
"You won't be in the ballroom," he said. He didn't look at the bandages. "You'll stay in the kitchen pass. The servers will handle the floor. You just plate."
I nodded. "Sophie?"
May you like
"Vanessa put her to bed early with a movie in the north wing. She won't be seen." He straightened a stack of napkins I'd just folded. "And Claire. Keep the gloves on over the bandages. No one needs to see that."
I didn't argue. I'd learned that the quieter I was before his guests arrived, the less he needed to correct later.
