Chapter 11: The Gala

The Kotter Records gala was held in a Century City ballroom with a ceiling.

Four hundred people in black tie stood under crystal chandeliers, drinking champagne and watching the door.

They watched me walk through it.

I wore the green dress from the garden party, the one I'd bought for an anniversary that never came.

Dottie had pressed it at six that evening.

"It's armor now," she'd said. "Don't let anybody tell you different."

Ashton wore a black tuxedo with the bow tie undone, and his arm under my hand was warm and solid.

"Last chance to leave," he murmured.

"No."

"Then I'm at your elbow."

"Good."

The room did what rooms do around him.

It parted, rippled, and closed behind us again.

I heard my name pass from mouth to mouth.

Fingers pointed.

A man in a silver suit raised his glass at me and mouthed, Marlow's.

I found Corbin first.

He stood by a pillar in a rented tux, holding a champagne flute he hadn't touched.

When he saw me he went white and looked for an exit.

There wasn't one.

Lila stood twenty feet beyond him on a small platform of white flowers, in a gold gown that had probably cost more than my building.

A ring of reporters surrounded her.

She was laughing at something, with her head thrown back, so perfectly that you could tell she'd practiced it.

Then she saw me, and the laugh went out.

I crossed the floor.

I didn't hurry, and I didn't hide.

The reporters turned.

"Lila," I said.

"Maeve."

She said it lightly.

"I don't think this is the place."

"It's exactly the place.

"Four hundred people.

"Photographers.

"The entire industry."

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