36 OLIVIAThe charity gala is beautiful. The finest, most mouthwatering cuisine is laid out on long tables along one wall of the opulent banquet hall. A tailcoated band plays lively smooth jazz on the stage set up at the other end.
Throughout the rest of the huge room, hundreds of upper-crust guests mingle and laugh and dance. White-shirted waiters slip fluidly through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne flutes. The high bay windows stand open, letting a crisp breeze ruffle my chiffon evening gown and play over my bared shoulders and back.
And I can’t enjoy any of it, because the heir clause is still hanging over my head, casting a dark shadow of doubt over everything.
Even just a week ago, I would have been proud to stroll in here on Noah’s arm. And unfortunately
