Page 116 of Sweet Ruin

I feel a little faint. I take the arm, mostly so I don’t fall over in these shoes.

Then he walks me through the archway into the ballroom proper, and I stop trying to have thoughts.

The gilded ceiling curves two stories high over our heads.

Candles burn everywhere. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand.

An ice sculpture of an eagle stands taller than I am near the center of the room. Tables overflow with silver bowls of caviar nestled in crushed ice, towers of blini, whole roasted fish, glazed pork, pickled vegetables, fruit, breads, cakes.

A pyramid of oranges rises three feet in the air.

I understand in theory that rich people can consume food without first arranging it into fancy displays, but in reality, they seem to need it stacked into monuments first.

One-percenters sure as weird.

A man in his sixties peels off from a group and grabs my hand before Kane can say anything. His handshake is damp but enthusiastic.

“Delilah!” He seizes my hand and pumps it twice. “Finally.”

Finally? I literally just got here.

“Well,” I say, “here I am.”

He laughs like that was hilarious, bows deeply, and then disappears back into the crowd.

I stare after him, wondering what the hell that was all about.

But apparently, it’s just the first of many.

A younger man approaches and says, “Miss Dorsey,” salutes Kane, and then vanishes just as fast as the first guy.

Someone hands me a plate I didn’t ask for, already loaded. Pork. Blini. Mushrooms. Pickles.

A woman appears with a caramel-colored shawl over her arm and drapes it on me. “For the chill,” she explains. “They keep the doors open all night.”

“Oh. Uh… thank you…?”

“Anna,” she supplies with a happy smile. “It’s my pleasure, Miss Dorsey.”

Five minutes later, I meet Mikhail.

Then Vera.

Then Artyom.

People keep using my name, even though we’ve never been introduced.

Nobody leans toward Kane and asks who I am.

They already know.

Which creates the deeply disorienting sensation of entering a room where I have somehow arrived before myself.

And the entire time, Kane looms huge at my side, silent but smirking just the tiniest little bit in the corner of his mouth. I keep glancing at him for answers, but he provides not a single one.

How did he know? How could he possibly have known how nice it is to be expected? To be wanted? To be greeted like an equal, a friend-in-the-making?

After a lifetime of being welcomed in and ushered out of my family’s life like I’m the hired help…