Chapter 9: Eleven Weeks

The Kane Foundation gala filled the whole ballroom on the fortieth floor.

Three hundred guests in evening dress stood under chandeliers, drinking champagne above the lights of Chicago.

I wore midnight blue silk, and Denton wore black, and he had not let go of my hand since the elevator.

Every few steps someone stopped us to shake his hand.

Every few steps someone stared at me and looked away.

"You can tell them to go to hell," Denton murmured.

"I'd rather smile at them," I said. "It's worse."

He laughed, low in his throat, and kissed my knuckles in front of everyone.

At eight o'clock, a ripple moved through the crowd near the doors.

Whitney had arrived on Preston's arm.

She wore a high-necked white gown and a white glove on her right hand.

Margot walked behind them, smiling.

Preston looked dragged.

His eyes searched the room until they found me, and then dropped to the floor.

"There she is," Whitney said, loud enough to turn heads. "There's my sister."

She came across the marble with her left hand held out to me.

"Lizzie, I'm so glad. I wanted everyone to hear it from me."

"Hear what?"

She turned to the crowd and put her gloved hand on her stomach.

"Preston and I are expecting," she said, in a trembling voice.

"I'm eleven weeks along. I didn't want you to find out by rumor, Lizzie, after everything."

A sound went through the ballroom, delighted and horrified.

Cameras came up.

This was her present.

She wanted me to be the jealous sister who had stolen a necklace out of spite, now humiliated again in front of the same crowd.

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