Part 2: Wesley folded them carefully and set them on a silver tray.
Across forty feet of polished parquet, Coach Moore met his eyes.
The old coach gave one small nod.
Go.
Wesley walked.
The orchestra was still playing, though badly now. Even the violinist had lost her rhythm. Conversations died as the quiet orphan crossed the ballroom.
Trevor saw him first.
His smile twisted.
“Well, look at that,” Trevor said. “The help wants a turn.”
A few people gasped.
Wesley kept walking.
His shoes were scuffed. His cuffs were too short. He could feel every stare in the room pressing against his skin.
But he did not look at Trevor.
He looked only at Savannah.
When he reached her chair, he stopped, bowed his head slightly, and lowered himself to one knee.
Savannah stared at him through wet lashes.