THE NIGHT SHE REFUSED TO SMILE

The first thing Khloe felt was her daughter kicking beneath the emerald silk. The second was her husband's hand settling on another woman's waist.

A charity gala was not where she had expected her marriage to end. She had imagined a kitchen argument, perhaps, or signatures passed between attorneys. Not a ballroom full of chandeliers, a jazz quartet, and people trying very hard not to look at the six-months-pregnant wife standing alone beside the flowers.

Khloe had known about Vanessa for two months. She had found the hotel receipts tucked inside Derek's coat, each one from a night he claimed he was negotiating a deal. When she showed them to him, he said pregnancy had made her suspicious. He said the business was stressful. He asked why she wanted to destroy their marriage over something she couldn't prove.

She had stayed because she was frightened. Derek controlled their joint accounts and had promised that, if she left, he could afford enough attorneys to keep her fighting until she couldn't buy diapers. She had also stayed because a foolish, tender part of her remembered his hands shaking during their first ultrasound.

Tonight, the tenderness was gone.

"Derek," she said, moving carefully between guests. "Can we sit for a minute? My feet are killing me."

He stood with a city councilman and two investors, holding scotch and laughing. He angled his body to hide her from the conversation.

"Not now, Khloe. I'm working."

"You're drinking."

His smile flattened. "It's called networking. Go find a chair in the corner."

He turned away before she could reply.

Khloe kept her chin up, though her lower back ached. She saw Vanessa approaching him in a red gown, her dark hair falling over one bare shoulder. Vanessa touched his arm. Derek looked at her with the open, delighted expression Khloe had not seen in nearly a year. Three women near the bar glanced at Khloe and then abruptly inspected their drinks.

She could endure another uncomfortable hour. What she could not endure was asking a man to treat her decently while the whole room watched him refuse.

She took her small gold clutch and headed for the exit.

"Khloe. Wait."

In the corridor, where antique mirrors reflected the muted ballroom lights, Derek caught up with her. Vanessa followed two steps behind.

"Where are you going?" Derek demanded.

"Home. I asked for a chair. You told me to go away."

"You don't walk out of an event like this. People will ask where my wife is."

Khloe looked at Vanessa. "It seems you've got company."

Vanessa sighed. "Please don't make this harder. Derek is under pressure to land the Moretti account. He needs someone supportive tonight."

"Then support him," Khloe said. "But don't speak for me."

Derek's fingers closed around her elbow. His voice went low and ugly. "You're embarrassing yourself. Go back to table four and smile. Or I'll freeze those accounts tomorrow."

Pain flashed through her arm. She pulled free. "Don't touch me."

He took a step forward. "I don't think you understand—"

"I think she does."

The voice came from beside the coat check, deep enough to stop Derek in mid-sentence.

A tall man emerged into the corridor, followed at a respectful distance by two men in dark suits. He had dark, swept-back hair, a weathered square jaw, and the watchful stillness of someone used to noticing exits before faces. His midnight-blue tuxedo was immaculate. A faint tattoo climbed the side of his neck above the collar.

Dominic Moretti.

Khloe knew the name. Everyone at the gala did. His legitimate holdings financed half the luxury construction on the waterfront; the stories about the other half of his empire rarely appeared in print. Derek had spent weeks courting him and had described the Moretti account as the deal that would make them untouchable.

Now Derek's hand dropped to his side.

"Mr. Moretti." He produced a quick, brittle smile. "This is a private discussion."

"I heard a woman tell you not to touch her." Dominic's gaze rested briefly on Khloe's reddening elbow. "That sounded clear."

Vanessa folded her arms. "You've misunderstood. They're married."

"I'm familiar with the concept." Dominic addressed Khloe rather than either of them. "Are you all right?"

It was a simple question. Nobody had asked it all evening.

"I'm not injured," she said. "I want to go home."

"Then I'll ask someone to bring your coat. Or I can leave you alone. Your choice."

Derek gave a breathless laugh. "Khloe isn't going anywhere. We have photographs scheduled."

Something settled inside her. It wasn't courage exactly. It was the exhaustion of being treated as an item on an itinerary.

"Cancel them," she said.

Beyond the corridor, the gala's photographer backed through the ballroom doors, searching for an angle. Khloe watched Derek spot the camera and straighten his tie. Even now, he was calculating which story a photograph could tell.

"You wanted an audience," Khloe told him quietly. "Fine. You can have one."

She turned to Dominic. "Would you walk me back through the ballroom? Just to the exit. I don't want him grabbing me again."

"Of course."

He offered his arm but waited until she took it. In the ballroom, conversation thinned. Derek hurried after them, calling her name as Vanessa followed with a bright, furious face. A photographer lifted his camera. Khloe stopped beside a column of white roses, suddenly aware of how the image would look: the pregnant wife and the investor Derek had spent all night trying to impress.

Dominic bent close enough to speak without anyone else hearing. "He's about to make this your fault. Do you want me to get you out before that happens?"

She saw Derek approaching, already preparing his smile for the camera. "He'll tell everyone you kidnapped me," she whispered.

"Probably."

Khloe surprised herself. "Then kiss me. Only if you want to. One kiss. Then I leave."

Dominic studied her face. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

He touched the side of her neck lightly and waited one last beat. She moved toward him. The kiss was brief, warm, and unmistakably chosen. Cameras flashed. Someone gasped. Khloe could hear Derek stop behind them.

She stepped back first.

"Thank you," she said.

Dominic's hand dropped immediately. "Your coat is coming."

Derek pushed between two guests. "What the hell have you done?"

Khloe looked at him for a long moment. She had expected triumph, or embarrassment, or the sort of cinematic satisfaction that followed a public scene. What she felt instead was the baby turning under her ribs and the urgent need to sit down.

"I asked you for a chair," she said. "You made it a battle."

Dominic's assistant arrived with her wrap. As Khloe took it, a slim folder slipped from beneath Derek's arm and landed near her shoe. On its cover she saw the words MARINER COURT: COMMUNITY SUPPORT. Through the transparent sleeve was a photograph of her outside an apartment building, holding a grocery bag for an elderly neighbor.

Beneath the photograph, in bold type, were four words she had never agreed to.

KHLOE HAYES, RESIDENT LIAISON.

"Why," she asked Derek, "is my picture in your development proposal?"