Claire Beaumont seized the handle of Adrian Cole's wheelchair hard enough to make the leather creak, spun him away from the banquet table, and said, "Roll yourself out.

I told everyone you couldn't stand being dumped."

One of the rear wheels chirped against the polished marble.

The sound cut through the low conversation around the nearest tables more cleanly than a shout would have.

Adrian's champagne had been untouched beside his place card.

The brown-and-cream plaid blanket remained folded over his legs, one corner displaced by the sudden turn.

He steadied himself with one hand on the armrest and looked up at Claire without answering.

She had always hated silence when it belonged to someone else.

For a second the anger in her face sharpened, as if she wanted him to give her something she could fight.

Then she seemed to remember where they were.

Three hundred guests occupied the Whitmore Ballroom beneath old brass chandeliers and ceilings painted before either of them had been born.

White roses spilled from silver bowls.

Waiters moved between tables carrying wine.

A string quartet had finished its opening set, and recorded dinner music had taken over softly enough that conversations could survive it.

Across the room, a donor from Connecticut was laughing too loudly at something a city councilman had said.

Near the dance floor, a photographer lowered his camera.

Claire released the wheelchair.

Her red evening gown settled around her as if the last five seconds had been erased.

She turned toward Grant Ellis, slipped her arm through his, and smiled.

Grant still held his champagne flute.

He had watched the whole thing with an expression Adrian had once seen on men standing beside golf carts after somebody else's bad shot.

"You actually invited him?" Grant asked.

Claire glanced back.

"I wanted him to see what winning looks like."

A few people nearby pretended not to have heard.

That was worse than staring.

Adrian noticed one woman inspect her butter knife.

Another man suddenly became fascinated by the wine label in front of him.

People with money were excellent at manufacturing privacy in public as long as the humiliation did not belong to them.

Adrian had spent most of his adult life among them.

He also knew that at least three phones were probably recording.

His hand tightened once beneath the blanket.

He told himself to leave.

That had been the sensible option before Claire touched the chair, and it was the sensible option now.

Instead, he remained where she had turned him.

A young banquet attendant had been standing near the service doors with a tray of empty glasses.

Adrian had noticed her earlier because she had been the only employee who asked whether he wanted the chair on the inside or outside of the table rather than deciding for him.

Now she handed the tray to another server without a word.

She crossed the marble floor.

Claire saw her coming.

"Oh, please," she muttered.

The attendant ignored her.

Her name tag read ELENA MARQUEZ.

Her dark hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head.

She wore the hotel's formal black dress uniform with a white apron reserved for foundation dinners, a costume Adrian personally disliked because it made the staff look as if the ballroom were pretending the twentieth century had not happened.

Elena crouched beside him.

Not dramatically.

Not with the pitying tilt of the head strangers sometimes used around wheelchairs.

She simply reached for his hand, hesitated before touching him, and waited.

He turned his palm upward.

Her fingers closed gently around his.

"You don't have to stay here and take this," she said.

Her voice was soft, but the room near them had grown quiet enough that everyone heard.

Adrian looked at her.

Then at Claire and Grant.

Grant was murmuring something near Claire's ear.

Claire laughed, but the laugh arrived half a second late.