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When I walked back into the ballroom, the chandeliers were glowing gold above three hundred guests, the band playing something soft and forgettable underneath all the conversation.
Camille was smiling the particular smile of a woman who believes every part of her plan has already succeeded.
A young waiter approached me quietly near the edge of the dance floor, balancing a tray he didn’t actually need to be carrying at that moment.
A tray he didn’t actually need to be carrying.
“Ma’am,” he said, low enough that only I could hear it. “I don’t mean to overstep. But I was in the back hallway an hour ago, and I heard the bride laughing with her mother about your hair. She said the money would belong to her by morning, one way or another.”
I thanked him. I meant it more than the words probably conveyed.