Chapter 8: The Award

The ballroom held three hundred people and one chandelier the size of a car.

I wore white, because Linus insisted.

"White is the color of a clean slate," he said, brushing a thread off my shoulder. "Also it will show every drop of whatever he throws at you."

"Nobody's throwing anything."

I carried the shoebox in both arms.

Cullen walked on my left, Alister on my right, and Bram two steps behind, wearing a tuxedo and a grin he was not hiding.

Heads turned as we crossed the room.

Whispers went in front of us.

"The Ardmores," someone said. "That's the lost daughter."

"That's the waitress from the article."

"Which is it?"

"Both, probably."

We took the table in the front row.

A smiling woman in pearls, the alumni chair, welcomed the crowd.

Then she said, "Our guest of honor tonight started with nothing."

Dean walked onto the stage to applause.

He wore a midnight-blue suit, and his smile was practiced and bright.

He looked out across the room, and I watched the exact moment he saw me.

The smile stayed on his face for one second too long.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much."

He grasped the podium.

"I'm not going to pretend my road was easy. When I came to this university, I was a boy with a duffel bag and a dream."

He had come with two suitcases and a mother who drove him.

I had carried one of them.

"I worked two jobs," Dean said. "I skipped meals. I learned that nobody hands you anything. What I have, I built myself."

A few in the audience nodded.

The managing partner, three tables back, stared at his plate.

"I built it myself," Dean said again, and his eyes landed on me like a dare.

I stood up.

The chair of the alumni association frowned.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

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