But the night was not finished with its revelations.
Victor turned to me. “Are you hurt?”
I wanted to lie. I wanted to say no because that was easier, cleaner, more acceptable in rooms like this.
Instead, I said, “Yes.”
Something in his face softened.
He removed his jacket and placed it over my shoulders, careful not to touch me without permission. That almost undid me. Not the kiss. Not the cameras. Not Derek in handcuffs.
The gentleness nearly broke me.
A woman pushed through the crowd then, silver-haired, elegant, trembling. She looked nothing like the people who came to galas to be seen. She looked like someone who had crossed fire to stand there.
Victor stepped aside.
“Lena,” he said quietly, “there’s someone you need to meet.”
The woman lifted a hand to her mouth.
My breath stopped.
I knew her eyes.
I had seen them every morning in my mirror.
“Mom?” I whispered.
The ballroom tilted.
My mother had been dead for eleven years.
At least, that was what Derek told me. That was what the papers said. A car accident. A closed casket. No family left. No one to ask questions when Derek entered my life years later like a rescuer with expensive flowers and perfect timing.
My mother crossed the marble floor and pulled me into her arms.
She smelled like lavender and rain.