Chapter 1 - The Woman They Invited as a Joke
Penelope Woods stepped through the ballroom doors as Thomas Dixon whispered, "You've got to be kidding me."
Larkin Steves lowered a crystal glass and noticed the black clutch in her hand.
A silver number had been scratched beneath its clasp.
Larkin stopped smiling.
This wasn't the joke he had planned.
For three full seconds, nobody at Larkin's table spoke.
The Solstice Gala had been designed for noise.
Crystal glasses chimed against one another beneath enormous chandeliers. A string quartet played near the marble staircase. Conversations overlapped beneath the warm glow of hundreds of candles, and waiters moved between tables carrying plates arranged with the precision of museum exhibits.
But around Larkin Steves, silence spread.
Thomas was the first to recover.
"That's Woods?"
Penelope heard him.
Of course she did.
She had spent three years hearing things powerful men assumed she couldn't hear.
She continued walking.
Her burgundy gown caught the chandelier light with every measured step. Her brunette hair, normally pulled into the severe clip everyone at the office associated with her, had been styled into a loose, elegant updo. She still wore her dark rectangular glasses.
That mattered to her.
She had considered contact lenses.
Then she'd rejected the idea.
Tonight wasn't about becoming someone else.
It was about forcing them to see the woman who had been standing in front of them the entire time.
A guest near the aisle stopped speaking.
Another lowered his glass.
Penelope didn't look at either of them.
Her eyes remained fixed on Larkin.
He hadn't moved.
That surprised her.
Larkin Steves was rarely caught unprepared.
He had the unnerving stillness of a man who considered every room his before entering it. Even seated, dressed entirely in black, tattoos disappearing beneath his cuffs and collar, he radiated controlled authority.
Tonight, however, his glass had frozen halfway between the table and his mouth.
Penelope stopped beside him.
"You said to wear something nice, Mr. Steves."
Larkin slowly lowered his drink.
"I did."
"I assumed everyone would be watching."
Thomas made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
Penelope looked at him.
Thomas's expression changed immediately.
Interesting.
She had learned years ago that confidence worked differently from beauty.
Beauty made people look.
Confidence made them wonder what you knew.
Penelope knew plenty.
Thomas lifted his glass.
"Miss Woods, I owe somebody five hundred dollars."
"Only five hundred?"
His eyebrows rose.
She calmly placed her clutch beside Larkin's plate.
"That's disappointing."
For the first time in three years, she saw something almost resembling a smile in Larkin's eyes.
Not his mouth.
Never his mouth.
His eyes.
Then he looked down.
At the clutch.
The smile disappeared.
Penelope noticed.
"You recognize it?" she asked.
Thomas glanced between them.
"Recognize what?"
Larkin's attention remained on the small silver number scratched beneath the clasp.
"No," he said.
Penelope knew he was lying.
She took the empty chair beside him.
"Good."
Thomas laughed.
"There she is."
Penelope unfolded her napkin.
"Who?"
"The woman hiding underneath those orthopedic shoes."
"My shoes were loafers."
"They were a crime."
"They cost seventy-nine dollars and lasted four years."
Thomas stared at her.
Larkin finally looked away from the clutch.
"Ignore him."
"I usually do."
Thomas pressed one hand dramatically against his chest.
"Penelope."
"Mr. Dixon."
"You've wounded me."
"I'll notify Human Resources."
Larkin actually smiled.
It lasted less than a second.
But Penelope saw it.
So did Thomas.
His amusement cooled.
Something passed between the cousins.
Penelope recognized it immediately.
Possession.
Not romantic possession.
Territorial possession.
Thomas had orchestrated tonight because he'd wanted entertainment. Larkin had agreed because he'd been bored.
Now the joke had escaped their control.
Penelope enjoyed that more than she should have.
A waiter approached.
"Champagne, ma'am?"
"Sparkling water, please."
Thomas groaned.
"I knew it."
"Knew what?"
"You don't drink."
"Not when I'm surrounded by people who expect me to make mistakes."
Thomas's smile vanished again.
Larkin studied her.
"You knew."
Penelope accepted her water.
"Knew what?"
"Why you were invited."
She took a sip.
"Was I supposed to believe I became senior staff sometime between processing Wednesday's expense reports and ordering printer toner Thursday morning?"
Thomas looked away.
Penelope continued.
"I manage the gala's invoices. I know which executives attend. I know which spouses attend. I know which department heads don't. Administrative assistants aren't on the list."
Larkin leaned back.
"Yet you came."
"You made attendance mandatory."
"You could've called in sick."
"And miss dinner?"
Thomas burst out laughing.
This time the sound contained genuine amusement.
"All right. I like her."
"You've worked twenty feet from me for three years."
"Apparently I haven't met you until tonight."
Penelope's expression barely changed.
"That says more about you than it does about me."
Thomas stopped laughing.
Larkin looked down, hiding another smile.
Dinner began.
Penelope had expected discomfort.
Instead, she discovered something surprising.
The gala was easy.
Easier than the office.
At work she deliberately lowered her voice, avoided prolonged eye contact, wore neutral colors, and kept every opinion behind her teeth.
Here she stopped pretending.
When an investment executive attempted to explain offshore currency exposure to her, Penelope corrected two errors in his calculations.
When a venture capitalist asked whether she was Larkin's date, she answered, "His secretary."
The man's eyebrows shot upward.
Penelope smiled.
"He needs considerable supervision."
Larkin nearly choked on his water.
By dessert, people were approaching her instead of avoiding her.
That wasn't what worried Larkin.
The clutch was.
Every few minutes his gaze returned to it.
Eventually Penelope leaned toward him.
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"What?"
"Trying not to stare at my purse."
"I wasn't staring."
"You've looked at it eleven times."
"You counted?"
"I manage spreadsheets professionally."
His jaw tightened.
"Where did you get it?"
"A vintage store."
"Which one?"
"Why?"
Larkin hesitated.
That was answer enough.
Penelope's amusement faded.
"Mr. Steves."
"Penelope."
It was the first time he had called her by her first name.
She noticed.
"So you do recognize it."
Before Larkin could answer, Thomas returned from speaking with another guest.
He saw Larkin's expression.
Then the clutch.
All color disappeared from his face.
That frightened Penelope more than anything Larkin could have said.
Thomas recovered quickly.
Too quickly.
"Nice purse."
"Thank you."
"New?"
"Yesterday."
Thomas reached toward it.
Penelope put her hand over the clutch.
His fingers stopped.
The moment became very still.
"Don't," she said.
Thomas smiled.
"Relax."
"I am relaxed."
His eyes moved to Larkin.
"We should talk."
Larkin stood.
"Excuse us."
Penelope watched the cousins disappear toward the mirrored corridor behind the ballroom.
She waited ten seconds.
Then twenty.
Then she picked up the clutch.
The number 42 hadn't been there when she purchased it.
She knew that because she'd inspected every inch of the thing before paying nearly four hundred dollars for it.
She had discovered the mark while sitting in the cab.
At first she'd assumed it was a manufacturer's code.
Then she'd remembered something.
Forty-two.
The floor where she worked.
Coincidence.
Probably.
Except Larkin had recognized it.
Thomas had too.
Penelope opened the clutch.
Lipstick.
Phone.
Wallet.
Compact mirror.
Nothing unusual.
She ran her fingertips along the lining.
Something shifted.
Penelope froze.
She pressed again.
There was something beneath the fabric.
Small.
Flat.
Rectangular.
Her heartbeat accelerated.
She glanced toward the corridor.
No Larkin.
No Thomas.
Using one fingernail, Penelope found a loose seam.
She pulled gently.
A tiny object slipped into her palm.
A brass key.
Attached to it was a narrow strip of yellowed paper.
Three words had been handwritten across it.
FOR LARKIN ONLY.
Penelope stared.
Someone bumped her chair.
She closed her fist immediately.
"Sorry."
A waiter continued past.
Penelope's pulse hammered.
She should give the key to Larkin.
Immediately.
Instead, she looked more closely.
There was another marking on the key.
A number.
Penelope knew that number too.
Not because of anything glamorous.
Because she had processed its monthly charge for three years.
Storage Unit 4217.
Every month, precisely $780 disappeared from one of the company's oldest operating accounts.
No department claimed it.
No employee requested it.
Penelope had once asked Thomas about the expense.
He had told her it was archival storage.
Then he'd instructed her never to ask again.
She had obeyed.
Furniture survived by not asking questions.
But Penelope wasn't furniture tonight.
Her phone vibrated.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
She opened the message.
DO NOT GIVE LARKIN THE KEY.
Her blood turned cold.
A second message arrived.
HE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT HIS FATHER LEFT HIM.
Penelope stood.
Across the ballroom, Larkin emerged from the corridor.
Thomas followed.
They were arguing quietly.
Then Larkin saw her.
Penelope slipped the key into her clutch.
He walked directly toward her.
"We're leaving."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"That argument works better during office hours."
"This isn't funny."
"I noticed."
Thomas arrived behind him.
His face was composed again.
Too composed.
"Penelope," Thomas said softly. "Did you open the lining?"
Larkin turned toward him.
"What lining?"
Thomas realized his mistake.
Penelope watched both men.
The atmosphere changed.
Larkin stepped toward his cousin.
"How did you know there was a lining?"
Thomas said nothing.
Penelope's phone vibrated again.
She looked down.
A photograph had arrived.
It showed Larkin's father.
She recognized him from the portrait hanging in the executive conference room.
But the photograph wasn't old.
Or at least, it hadn't been taken where she expected.
He was standing beside Storage Unit 4217.
Beside him was a much younger Thomas.
And between them stood a woman Penelope had never seen.
On the back wall, someone had painted a date.
Three days before Larkin's father died.
Penelope enlarged the image.
There was writing beneath it.
Her own name.
PENELOPE WOODS.
She stopped breathing.
"Penelope?"
Larkin reached toward her phone.
She stepped back.
Another message appeared.
IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY YOUR NAME IS IN THAT PHOTOGRAPH, COME TO UNIT 4217 ALONE.
Then the ballroom doors opened behind her.
A hotel employee entered, scanned the room, and called her name.
"Miss Woods?"
Penelope turned.
May you like
The man held a sealed envelope.
"It was left for you twenty years ago."
