The white-suited servers move effortlessly through the
growing crowd of guests with bottles of champagne,
topping off my glass with worrying regularity. I must not
drink too much. I must not drink too much, I repeat to
myself, but I’m beginning to feel light-headed, and I don’t
know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
mystery and excitement created by the masks, or the
secret silver balls. The dull ache below my waist is
becoming impossible to ignore.
“So you work at SIP?” asks a balding gentleman in a
half-bear—or is it a dog?—mask. “Heard rumors of a
hostile takeover.”
I flush. There is a hostile takeover from a man who has
more money than sense and is a stalker par excellence.
“I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t
know about these things.”
Christian says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies,
wearing an impressive black and white harlequin mask,
interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.”
Christian takes my hand, and we follow the chattering
crowd to the large marquee.
The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow
chandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over the ivory
silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least
thirty tables, and they remind me of the private dining room
at the Heathman—crystal glasses, crisp white linen
covering the tables and chairs, and in the center, an
exquisite display of pale pink peonies gathered around a
silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it is a
basket of goodies.
Christian consults the seating plan and leads me to a
table in the center. Mia and Grace are already in situ, deep
in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Grace is
wearing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian
mask to match. She looks radiant, not stressed at all, and
she greets me warmly.
“Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so
beautiful, too.”
“Mother,” Christian gr
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