He couldn’t have been older than eight.
His grandmother caught his arm gently.
“Daniel, sit down.”
But the boy looked at Ivy.
“Are you the lady who caught the soup?”
Ivy stopped.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
He glanced at her torn sleeve.
“Did you get hurt because of me?”
She felt her throat tighten.
“No. I got hurt because someone decided to hurt me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The boy looked toward Vivienne.
Then back at Ivy.
“Thank you for not letting it fall on me.”
Ivy managed a smile.
“You’re welcome.”
His grandmother, Senator Caroline Whitmore, finally looked up.
“I should have said something sooner,” she told Ivy.
Ivy studied the expensive jewelry at the woman’s throat.
The glass of untouched champagne beside her plate.
The hand resting protectively on her grandson’s shoulder.
“Yes, Senator,” Ivy replied. “You should have.”
Then she continued walking.
Behind her, the ballroom’s enormous doors opened again.
Guests were beginning to leave.
But Ivy knew the most important part of the evening wasn’t over.
Because Ronan Blackwood had stopped the second blow.
He hadn’t stopped the first.
And she was beginning to wonder how many people in that mansion had known exactly what Vivienne was capable of.
The wound wasn’t life-threatening.
