Chapter 1 - The Weight of an Unfinished Life
“Before what?” Karen asked, her gaze steadying on his tie clip.
“Before you had to become everyone’s shield,” Julian said softly.
The question struck an unarmored nerve. Nobody asked event coordinators about their past lives; they were simply assumed to have materialized out of thin air along with the linen napkins and ice sculptures. Karen looked down at her polished sensible shoes, turning with Julian in time to the violin’s swelling crescendo.
“I was pre-law at Northwestern,” she whispered, the words tasting like ancient dust. “I wanted to do public interest litigation. I had a scholarship, three notebooks full of Supreme Court case briefs, and big ideas about fixing the system.”
Julian’s eyes didn't show pity; they showed an intense, calculating comprehension. “And you had to drop out when your mother passed.”
“The rent on our bungalow in Bridgeport didn't care about my midterm exams,” Karen said bluntly. “Law school doesn't feed three kids who grow out of their winter coats every six months. Hospitality pays by the hour, offers tips, and provides hotel leftovers when banquets wrap up. I took an entry-level banquet server job, worked ninety hours a week, and clawed my way into management. That's the whole glamorous resume, Mr. Cole.”
“Julian,” he corrected her quietly. “And you gave up your dream so they could have theirs.”
“Sophie is taking premed courses at UIC,” Karen said, pride cracking through her professional armor. “Matt is fixing up beaters in trade school, and Ben just made the varsity debate squad. That’s not giving up a dream. It’s just trading it for three better ones.”
Julian spun her beneath the chandelier, his hand pressing gently into the small of her back. The movement was so effortless, so intoxicatingly fluid, that Karen almost forgot the three hundred pairs of judgmental eyes burning holes into her clearance-rack dress.
Then the orchestra hit the final, lingering chord of the waltz.
The music faded into polite applause. Reality crashed back into the Hawthorne Grand ballroom like an icy wave. Karen instinctively took a half-step back, dropping her hand from Julian’s warm chest. Her hotel radio buzzed aggressively on her hip.
“Brooks, where are you?” her manager Greg’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “The keynote speaker needs his dietary card updated and table four is demanding extra pinot noir. Get moving.”
“I have to go,” Karen said, stepping back toward the shadowed perimeter of the room. “Your seven and a half minutes are up, Mr. Cole.”
“I’m coming with you,” Julian said, ignoring the crowd parted around them like the Red Sea.
“Julian, darling!” a shrill, manicured voice rang out.
Victoria Hale glided into their path, clutching a tall flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. Her emerald Cartier necklace caught the light, matching the malicious gleam in her eyes. Behind her stood two society columnists from the Chicago Tribune, already taking notes on their smartphones.
“You’ve certainly done your civic duty for the evening, haven’t you?” Victoria sneered, looking down her aristocratic nose at Karen. “Dancing with the help. How wonderfully philanthropic. Perhaps next year the Cole Foundation can auction off dates with the valet drivers.”
Karen felt the blood rush into her ears, but she kept her spine straight as steel. “Excuse me, Miss Hale. I have an event to run.”
“Oh, don’t run off, sweetie,” Victoria purred, taking a deliberate step forward. “I believe you forgot to clear the dessert plates from table twelve. Or does playing Cinderella make you forget your actual job?”
Julian stepped directly between them, his jaw tightening into rigid granite. “Victoria, walk away. Right now.”
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“Why should I, Julian? Everyone is laughing at you,” Victoria snapped, her voice carrying across the silent ballroom. “You’re making a fool of yourself over a girl who probably steals the leftover steak in Tupperware!”
In a flash of theatrical spite, Victoria flicked her wrist. The crystal champagne flute tipped forward. A golden cascade of sticky, freezing alcohol splashed violently across the chest of Karen’s navy dress, soaking the fabric and short-circuiting the radio at her waist with a loud, pathetic spark.
