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Another burst of applause. It fills the room, a crisp avalanche of approval. Hands clapping against silk and diamonds, polite murmurs of admiration. Someone near the bar turns their head to look at me. Then another.

A slow ripple of whispers spreads through the room as everyone turns to look at me. No escaping: they all know exactly who to look at, because I’ve spent the last few hours introducing myself to all of them, making sure they’drememberme.

Logically, I know what’s supposed to happen next. I’m supposed to smile graciously, nod, accept my role as tonight’s newest philanthropist.

But I can’t. I can’t even breathe. My mind loops the same three thoughts: This isn’t real. I never wrote a card. I never signed my name. This isn’t real.

I didn’t fill out a donation card. How could I?I can’t afford it.

My eyes sweep the crowd, uncomprehending, searching without knowing what I’m looking for. Searching for an answer, an explanation.

And then I see Max, standing near the bar, watching me. Arms crossed, champagne in hand, satisfied smile carved into his pale face. He lifts a hand. Not a wave—more of a salute. A tiny, almost absent-minded flick of his fingers.

A chill creeps down my spine. Why is he—

Then I see what’s behind him. The donation table.

Dahlia, lounging against it, her arm wrapped around Anthony’s waist, his chin resting on her head. The pledge cards, neatly stacked. The pen still in Max’s hand.

Oh.

The ballroom’s gilded splendour closes in on me, the most opulent cage that ever was. Max watches me like a cat watching the bird it’s only half-killed. Death would be too clean, wouldn’t it? His expression is almost affectionate, like he knows I won’t—can’t—do anything. He tilts his head, watching, waiting.

Like everyone else in the room, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

23

White Knight

Sophie

It’s a strange feeling,being awake in a nightmare.

Not just a nightmare: my worst nightmare.

My vision is blurred, every face and body around me obscured, Maximilian’s face distorting into a clownish mask. My hands shake as I reach blindly for the bar, feeling around to put them down, sticky alcohol splashing over my fingers.

My dress, which I’d put on like armour all night, now feels like a straitjacket, constricting my movements, my breathing, which comes out too short, too fast.

What am I going to do? I can’t deny the donation, not like this, not in front of everyone. But if I accept it, then I won’t have the money for it. I’ll have to admit that I lied, or that I can’t afford it. My thoughts clog, gluey and thick with humiliation.

Whispers grow louder as people wonder what I’m doing, why I’m not saying anything. I try to straighten myself, but I wobble, knees buckling, too weak with panic to support me. I feel like I’ve just been wounded, a cut somewhere far beyond flesh, a knife plunged directly into my soul.

And there’s nothing I can do about it, the fight bled right out of me.

A warm hand settles on my back; a solid presence locks into place at my side. Evan Knight appears as though caught mid-laughter, a flute of champagne in his hands, his brushed-back hair painting the picture of the debonair, careless New York scion.

His hand presses against my back, steadying me. For a split second, his eyes meet mine, hesitant, almost questioning. Without thinking, I reach out behind me, grasping his sleeve so hard I feel my fingernails dig into my palm even through the fabric. My breath is still short and hectic, my heartbeat a frantic staccato.

“Oh god, I’msosorry—” His voice sounds sonormal, so amused and unbothered, the apology boyish yet sincere, that it makes my own silence feel almost grotesque in comparison. “In my hurry to enjoy the excellent champagne, I must’ve forgotten to include my name on the pledge card, but I’m incredibly proud to stand by Sophie’s side in supporting this cause.”

His eyes sweep the crowd, which begins clapping once more. I know the exact moment his gaze finds Maximilian’s because his entire body stiffens at my side, and his fingers tighten on my back. Maximilian gives a tiny shrug as if to sayso what?and I feel Evan’s muscles clenching against me like his entire body is tensed for a fight.

“And to match that generosity,” Mr Knight adds, dissolving the moment; his arm is around Mrs Knight’s waist, his voice reaching with ease and command through the room, “Eleanor and I would like to double the donation on our own behalf.”

More applause, mingled with impressed murmurs. The host in the sparkling violet dress concludes the announcement of donations, makes a brief speech full of self-aware sarcasm,and introduces the band that’s already stepping up on stage behind her. The crowd has moved on, but I remain frozen and insensible as Evan gently guides me through the ballroom, one hand pressed to the small of my back.

I know he’s just saved me. Not just him—his family, too, his parents stepping in to swipe my humiliation from existence with a carelessly generous hand. But I don’tfeelsaved. I feel wounded down to my soul, frozen in horror, trapped—a butterfly pinned to a board with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar needle.