Wanda was recovering remarkably well. Blake sat by her bedside, reading a magazine aloud, her voice soft.
The door to the hospital room burst open and Hattie rushed in, a whirlwind of energy. She tossed a black uniform onto the foot of the bed.
"Emergency," Hattie announced. "The catering company for the Cancer Research Foundation gala is short-staffed. It's five hundred bucks, cash, for five hours of work. You in?"
Blake looked at the growing pile of bills on her mother's nightstand—things the trust fund didn't cover. She didn't hesitate. "I'm in."
Later that evening, Blake moved through the opulent ballroom of The Pierre hotel, a heavy tray of champagne flutes balanced on her hand. The room glittered with diamonds and fake smiles. She kept her head down, a ghost in a black uniform. At least here, across the city from the hospital's orbit, no one would recognize her.
A hush fell over the crowd. The spotlight hit the stage.
And there he was.
Barrett stood at the podium, devastatingly handsome in a custom tuxedo. He spoke about the hospital's new cardiac wing—a presentation he was giving as a favor to a board member who chaired both institutions, his voice resonating with passion and authority. He was a king in his element, and Blake, watching from the shadows, felt a painful, illicit thrill of pride.
Then, Gwyneth Lang, in a stunning silver gown, glided onto the stage to join him. She slipped her arm through his, and they smiled for the crowd, the perfect, powerful couple. The applause was deafening.
Blake's heart felt like it had been squeezed in a vise.
The gala moved to the dance floor. Barrett and Gwyneth took the center, moving together with an easy, practiced grace.
Blake kept to the edges of the room, her eyes burning. She was refilling her tray when a portly, red-faced man reeking of whiskey blocked her path.
"Well, hello there," he slurred, his eyes roaming over her body. He reached out and pinched her chin, his touch slimy. "How much for a private party, sweetheart?"
Blake recoiled, knocking the tray. Champagne sloshed onto the man's expensive suit.
"You clumsy bitch!" he roared, his face purpling with rage. He raised his hand to strike her.
Blake flinched, bracing for the blow.
It never came.
A security guard—one of two who had been quietly tracking Olson across the ballroom after complaints from the catering staff—grabbed the man's raised arm from behind and twisted it behind his back.
"Sir, you need to come with us," the guard said, his voice calm but unyielding.
"Do you know who I am?" the man sputtered, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. "I'm Garner Olson! I'm a major donor to—"
"I don't care if you're the King of England," the guard cut him off. "You're done for the night."
Across the ballroom, Barrett had broken away from Gwyneth and was moving toward the commotion. But before he could reach them, Gwyneth caught his arm, her smile tight, her fingers pressing into his sleeve.
"Barrett. Don't make a scene. Not here."
He stopped. His jaw was locked, his fists clenched at his sides. But he was trapped—by Gwyneth, by the crowd, by the impossible position of being the hospital's public face while the woman he couldn't acknowledge was being harassed ten feet away.
The security guards were already escorting Olson toward the exit. Barrett watched them go, his eyes dark with a fury he could not act on—not here, not now. But Blake saw the way his gaze tracked the man, cataloging him. He would not forget.
Gwyneth, oblivious to the real reason for his tension, tugged gently at his arm. "I want to dance again. Come on, darling." She turned her attention to the crowd, her voice light and airy. "It's so unfortunate when people can't handle their champagne. The foundation really should vet its guests more carefully."
She didn't even glance at Blake. To Gwyneth, the waitress who had almost been struck was as invisible as the carpet beneath her designer heels.
Blake straightened her uniform with shaking hands and retreated toward the kitchen. She couldn't let him see her like this. So small. So pathetic.
The kitchen door swung open, but it wasn't him. It was a chef, yelling for more canapés. Blake used the distraction to slip out a side door into a long, quiet service corridor lined with stacked linens and cleaning carts.
She leaned against the cool wall, trying to control her breathing, when a hand clamped down on her arm. He had followed her. Barrett pulled her into a dark, narrow pantry, the door clicking shut behind them, plunging them into near-total darkness. The air was thick with the scent of dried spices and bleach.
He ripped the tray from her hands and slammed it onto a shelf. He pinned her against the door, his body caging hers.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice raw with a fury she didn't understand. "Why are you dressed like this, serving these people?"
"I need the money!" she cried, her own anger finally breaking through the fear and humiliation. "Not all of us were born with a trust fund, Barrett! Some of us have to work for a living!"
Her words seemed to stun him into silence. He stared at her, at her defiant, tear-filled eyes, and something inside him broke.
He crushed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was desperate, punishing, and filled with a despair that mirrored her own. It tasted of anger and champagne and a terrifying, possessive need. He had been standing next to the most beautiful woman in the room, making polite conversation, and all he could think about was the sight of Blake in that uniform, and the primal urge to tear it off her.
She struggled against him for a moment, then went limp, the fight draining out of her. She let him kiss her in the dark, cramped pantry, a secret, shameful act in the servant's quarters of his glittering world.
