Cass is still standing in the doorway of the powder room. She hasn’t moved. The hand that was over her stomach has dropped to her side, where her fingers are working the silk of her dress between them.
There are no words for this. There’s no apology in any language I speak—and I speak several—that would do for this moment. I’m sorry, dikarka. I’ll make up for this.
But there’s no time for that.
It’s simply time to leave.
The security guards flank me as we pass back into the ballroom, hugging a rear wall while everyone turns their attention up to the band on stage.
I watch the planner and Senator DeMaris disappear into the crowd. By tomorrow, the cut at his eyebrow will be a Steri-stripped inconvenience, and the official story will be that the senator took a tumble on his way back from
