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Whitcomb frowns. “Prepare her how, exactly?”

“The full treatment.”

“Which means?”

“Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. Basic etiquette. Names to remember. Topics to avoid. When to laugh. When to nod. When to excuse herself. How to hold a champagne flute. A condensed education in surviving rich men with fragile egos.”

Ellery lifts his eyebrows. “You intend to personally oversee this?”

“Sure. Why not? Is that a problem?”

“Of course not,” Ellery says. “It’s just that… Perhaps someone else…”

“Do you have someone who could do the job better in such a short time?” I ask.

Bradley coughs again. “Mr. Stanley must not feel insulted.”

“Mr. Stanley will be told Ms. Hart is a last-minute guest of the foundation,” I say, “personally selected to accompany him because of his importance to the evening. She will be presented beautifully. She will be grateful. She will be charming. Does anyone else have anything more to add?”

No one speaks.

“Anyone?” I say again. “Bueller?”

Whitcomb exhales through his nose. “Very well.”

“Excellent,” I say. “Then the matter is settled.” I turn the tablet back toward myself and close Ella Hart’s profile.

But not before looking once more.

Just once.

An employee photo isn’t remarkable. It flattens a person into a record. It’s identification, nothing more.

But Ella Hart isn’t flat.

Soft, certainly. But not flat. Not empty.

I should be moving to the next problem.

Instead, I wonder what her voice sounds like. Whether she blushes when cornered. Whether she’ll look at me with fear, resentment, or gratitude when I tell her she’s being pulled from the servants’ wing to flirt with a man three times her age.

An unexpected feeling coils through me.

For the first time since this miserable meeting began, I’m looking forward to something.

One-on-one time with Ella Hart.

5

ELLA

Audrey drops her gaze to my apron pocket. Then slowly, too slowly, she looks back up. “What’s that?”

I move my hand quickly to my pocket to silence the phone, but it’s an old-fashioned flip phone, so to silence it I have to flip it open. By some miracle, I manage to do it while it’s still in my pocket.

“It’s my phone,” I say.

“Your phone.”