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I open the compartment. Inside, nestled in silver and ice, is a bottle with a label I don’t recognize but probably costs more than what I make in a year. Condensation rises from the opening. Beside it sits one crystal flute.

I pour slowly and watch the gold bubbles rise in the glass.

I take a sip.

Wow.

It’s crisp and the bubbles tingle across my tongue.

I take another sip. This one is smoother, and I let it sit for a moment in my mouth before swallowing as the car pulls away from Vexley House.

And I feel…weightless.

I’m not holding a tray or sweeping a mop over the floor. I’m not polishing silver or brass or varnished wood.

I’m just here. In a luxurious car. Drinking expensive champagne and wearing a silver dress fit for a princess.

I’m not sure how long we drive before we reach the venue. The car stops, and a moment later, the driver opens the door and extends his hand.

“I’ll see you inside,” he says.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Mr. Vexley’s orders.”

I nod and let him lead me through the entrance. Men in tuxedos stand in clusters.

I stand at the base of the steps with my tiny clutch in one hand and the taste of champagne still on my tongue.

One night in the sun.

Even if the sun has already set.

I climb the steps, the driver beside me, until we reach the doorway to a large room. A young woman sits outside the ballroom.

“Ms. Ella Hart,” the driver says.

“Of course.” She looks at her list and raises her eyebrows. “Goodness. You’re at table one, Ms. Hart. With the Vexleys.”

I gulp and murmur thanks.

“Have a wonderful evening,” the driver says. “I’ll be back at midnight.”

I nod, unable to speak, as I walk into a grand hall with high ceilings. Crystal chandeliers float above and the walls are draped in ivory silk. Gold candles flicker in glass cylinders along every ledge and table. The round tables are covered in cream linens, with elaborate centerpieces of white lilies, dark-red roses, and slender black candles.

A woman in black approaches me. “Your table, ma’am.”

“Uh…table one. I guess. I’m Ella Hart.”

She widens her eyes for a split second. “Of course. Mr. Stanley’s guest. I’ll escort you to the table.”

We walk toward a table near the front. It’s empty except for one man.

Oh, God…

He stands.

“Mr. Stanley,” the woman says. “May I present Ms. Hart.”