Chapter 19: The Gala

Tilda's POV

Braden's father stopped at my desk on Monday with a walking stick and no appointment.

Alexander stood a pace behind him, tight-jawed, and I gave him a small shake of the head.

"You are the receptionist," the old man said.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Tilda."

"My son has been hurt by this firm."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"You will not ruin a good man over a broken engagement."

He set the stick against my desk.

"I intend to be at that gala on Saturday. Do you understand me?"

I looked up at him.

He had Braden's eyes, and they didn't wait for my answer either.

"I hope you'll come, sir," I said. "Sit near the front."

He stared at me, trying to find the joke.

He didn't find one, and he left.

On Saturday night the ballroom was gold and loud, with two hundred people at round tables and a string quartet nobody was hearing.

I walked in wearing my mother's plum.

Heads turned, and I let them.

The partners' table stood on a low platform at the front, beside a podium and a big white screen.

My seat was the empty one at the end, nearest the microphone.

Alexander had come in by the side door, wearing a tie the color of my dress.

"You look," he said, and then he had to stop.

"Say it later."

"I intend to say it all night."

He went to find a spot at the back of the room, near the sound technician.

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