The first thing Vanessa Sterling did after kicking the maid was turn toward the cameras and smile.
The second was realize the maid had already caught her ankle.
For one unbelievable moment, the enormous ballroom inside Whitmore House became completely silent.
Three hundred guests stared.
Vanessa fought to keep her balance on one silver heel, her expression suspended somewhere between satisfaction and sudden discomfort.
Naomi Reyes stood directly in front of her in a simple gray uniform, one hand firmly gripping Vanessa’s leg.
Vanessa had expected the maid to stagger backward.
She had imagined champagne glasses crashing to the floor, laughter moving through the ballroom, Naomi scrambling away in embarrassment.
Instead, Naomi met her eyes with unsettling calm.
“Please don’t make me take this any further.”
Vanessa had no idea what those words were supposed to mean.
Not yet.
Three weeks earlier, Naomi Reyes had been almost impossible to notice.
At twenty-nine, she had spent eleven months working as a housekeeper at Whitmore House, a vast stone estate outside Boston owned by one of New England’s richest families.
Her dark hair was always pulled into a neat bun.
She arrived before sunrise.
She polished silver.
She remembered exactly how the groundskeeper liked his coffee.
