Lorenzo felt a rage so pure it nearly blinded him. He reached inside his jacket for the gun he was not supposed to have. He was going to kill Beatrice Vane in the middle of the Palmer House ballroom. Consequences be damned.
But before he could move, a blur of black and white shot across the floor.
Sophie did not think. She did not calculate the risk. She saw her own grandmother in the terrified eyes of the woman being bullied. The tray of hors d’oeuvres hit a side table with a clatter, spilling crab cakes everywhere.
Sophie sprinted the last 10 ft and slid between Beatrice and Isabella just as the older woman was about to hit the floor. She caught Isabella, wrapping work-hardened arms around the frail shoulders and holding her up.
“Don’t you dare touch her,” Sophie said.
Her voice was shaking, but it was loud enough to be heard.
Beatrice blinked, stunned. She looked at the maid as if a cockroach had just spoken to her.
“Excuse me? Do you know who I am? Get out of my way, you little servant.”
Sophie did not move. She could feel Isabella trembling against her chest, a bird caught in a storm.
“I don’t care who you are,” Sophie said, her heart hammering against her ribs. “She’s confused. She’s scared. And you are bullying an elderly woman over a piece of fabric. Have you no shame?”
The gasps from the crowd were audible.
A maid lecturing Beatrice Vane was social suicide.
Beatrice’s face turned a violent shade of red.
“Manager!” she screamed. “Where is the manager? I want this girl fired. I want her arrested.”
The hotel manager, Mr. Henderson, came running over, pale and sweating.
“Mrs. Vane, I am so sorry.”
“Fire her!” Beatrice shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Sophie. “And throw this old witch out on the street!”
Sophie tightened her grip on Isabella.
“It’s okay,” she whispered into the elderly woman’s ear, ignoring the screaming socialite. “I’ve got you. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
Beatrice, fueled by the lack of immediate obedience, grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter who had frozen in the chaos.
“You want to help the trash? Then you can smell like it too.”
With a vicious sneer, Beatrice threw the champagne.
Sophie saw it coming. She spun around, shielding Isabella with her own body. The cold, sticky liquid hit Sophie squarely in the face and chest, soaking her hair and dripping down her apron. She gasped from the shock of it, but she did not let go of Isabella.
“There!” Beatrice laughed, looking around for validation from her peers. “Now the help matches the hag.”
Sophie wiped champagne from her eyes. She stood tall, dignity radiating from her despite the mess, and looked Beatrice directly in the eye.
“If making me wet makes you feel powerful, ma’am, then I feel sorry for you. Your dress is ruined, but your character was clearly ruined long before tonight.”
Silence.
Absolute, terrifying silence.
Beatrice raised her hand to slap Sophie.
“You insolent—”
“Beatrice.”
The name was spoken softly, but it carried across the ballroom like the crack of a whip.
It came from the grand staircase.
Every head turned. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Lorenzo Moretti descended the stairs slowly, 1 step at a time. His face was unreadable, a mask of cold, beautiful marble. But his eyes were burning with a fire that promised ash and ruin. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the manager. He walked straight into the circle, his polished shoes making no sound.
Beatrice Vane’s hand froze in midair. Her arrogance evaporated instantly, replaced by primal fear. Everyone knew Lorenzo Moretti. Everyone knew that if a person crossed him, they did not simply lose money.
They disappeared.
Lorenzo stopped 3 ft from them. He looked at Beatrice. Then he looked at Mr. Henderson. Finally, his gaze landed on Sophie. He saw the champagne dripping from her chin. He saw the fierce, protective way she held his mother. He saw the fear in her eyes warring with a stubborn bravery he had not seen in years.
He stepped closer to Sophie.
She flinched, expecting another attack.
Lorenzo reached out. Sophie squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for a blow.
But he did not strike her.
