For a heartbeat, the ballroom fell away.

Diana's fingers tightened around the tray as the man in black looked straight through the glitter and noise and found her. Devon Knight's gaze didn't linger long it was just a flick, a calculation, but it struck with the force. She tore her eyes down, heat rising to her throat.

"Keep moving," the floor manager hissed, suddenly appearing at her elbow. "VIP alcove, Champagne. move!" He added when Diana didn't immediately spring into action like he wanted. Diana wished he had asked her to go anywhere else and not where Devon Knight was.

But she nodded, the tray trembling as she slipped into the river of staff moving between tables. She kept her head down, shoulders squared and her breath shallow. Don't look up. Don't think. Just pour. She kept telling herself over and over again in her mind.

The VIP area was decorated beautifully, and Diana couldn't help but think about the fact that if things were still good with her family, she would be part of the people in there. Well, she rarely attends parties unless she has no choice but to go.

Behind the Vip Alcove were the city's most polished predators gathered together and having a low conversation.

It was a combination of Senators. Heirs. The sort of men who could raise and ruin with a signature. The sort of men who had once clinked glasses with her father.

Diana edged in, the tray balanced against her palm. She didn't mean to look. She looked. She couldn't help it.

Devon was close enough now that she could see the cut of his jaw.

He stood a little apart from everyone else, listening while a silver-haired man murmured something at his shoulder. Clara Bennett hovered nearby, her laughter sounded too bright and fake, which made Diana want to scoff. She watched as Clea tilted her wrist to display a bracelet sized for cameras.

"Mr Knight," the silver-haired man said, his voice low. "With Graham off the board, your timeline..."

Devon's glance was enough to silence him. "Timelines bore me, Martin. Results do not."

Diana's pulse kicked when she heard her father's name. Graham!. Off the board. She swallowed and forced her hand steady as she stepped forward, the last thing she wanted was to draw any attention to herself. Being here alone had her questioning her choices.

Clara's eyes soon caught Diana, and a glint of surprise passed through her eyes, but was soon replaced with mockery.

"Careful," Clara sang, turning just as Diana reached her.

"This one's skittish. You are skittish, aren't you, darling?"

Diana tipped the bottle on the tray she was holding and poured Clara a drink, even though she wished the drink were going on top of Clara instead of the glass. She decided to focus on what she was doing and not look at Clara. She focused on the line of gold rims. One by one. Breathe. Diana told herself.

A man with a ruddy face and a senator's pin crooked a finger at her. "Graham's girl," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Didn't expect to see you working. Thought you lot floated above all this."

Clara's smile sharpened. "Oh, she's very adaptable."

The laugh caught in Diana's chest, acid and old. She straightened, tray lightened of two flutes. "Would you like anything else, sir?" she said, her voice even.

"Respect," the man said, smirking. "But you've nothing left to pour, have you?"

"Enough," Devon, who had been watching the entire time, finally said...

It wasn't a shout. It didn't need to be. The word cut through the chatter like ice and made Heads turn. The senator coughed into his collar and busied himself with his drink. Clara's mouth flattened, just briefly, before her performance returned yet again..

Devon's eyes travelled back to Diana. He took a step closer to where she was standing and lifted a flute from her tray without taking his eyes off her. Up close, his gaze wasn't cold; it was precise. Measuring. "Thank you," he said, and the simple courtesy landed like a challenge.

Her throat went tight. "You're welcome."

"Leave us," he added to no one in particular, and yet the little cluster around them slowly scattered till everyone was gone. Clara was the last person to leave the VIP Alcove. She glared at Diana and scoffed as she walked away.

Diana's skin prickled, she wanted to leave, and at the same time, she had so many questions that needed answering. She tried to step back, but the tray she was holding caught the edge of the table, and a glass tilted, kissed another with a soft chime. Her hand shot out to steady it, but before she could pull away, Devon was fast. His fingers closed, not on the glass, but around her wrist.

It was Warm, unyielding and Present.

"Miss Graham," he said quietly. His eyes were intently on her.

Her name on his tongue made something reckless rise in her. "Congratulations," she whispered, lifting her chin up a bit. "The city says you've won." Diana could feel anger rising up in her slowly as she stared back at him.

A beat. Somewhere beyond the alcove, violins swelled, laughter spiked, silver waltzed against porcelain. But where they stood, the air tightened.

"People say many things when they're guessing" Devon replied. "I prefer facts."

"Fact," Diana bit back, her pulse racing. It was hard to hide the anger in her tone, and she didn't want to hide it.

"My father is in handcuffs. Fact, your people are celebrating."

A shadow of something, amusement? Annoyance? She wasn't quite sure, crossed his face and was gone. "If you intend to survive this," he said, so soft only she could hear, "start by asking who benefits from your noise."

"I did," she said. "Your name kept appearing."

"Then you haven't asked enough." He released her wrist, the absence almost as startling as the touch. "You're far from your usual circles, Miss Graham. That interests me."

"I didn't come here to interest you."

"Didn't you?" He set his untouched champagne aside. "Come," Devon said and Diana wanted to scoff. What the hell was his deal

She blinked and said, "I'm working."

"For me, for one minute," Devon replied, the way he stared at her was a bit unsettling, but Diana was angry and before she could reply

He moved without waiting for her agreement, cutting through the alcove to a side corridor that led to a service hall half-hidden by a gilt screen. The floor manager glanced up, mouth already forming a reprimand, then saw who stood with Diana and thought better of it. His eyes were filled with curiosity, but he couldn't dare utter a single word and could only watch in silence.

Diana sighed deeply before she followed after him. The curious eyes of people who saw her following after him pierced her like a knife, but she kept her eyes on his back.

Devon stood with his hands in his pockets, the corridor's weak light pooling on polished shoes as he waited for her to catch up. She finally did, and what followed next was silence.

"I don't owe you anything," Diana said, because the silence unnerved her more than the ballroom had. "And I have nothing you want."

"On the contrary." His gaze flicked over the starched collar, the borrowed apron, the cheap shoes that she was wearing.

His look was not cruel, it was rather Cataloguing. "You have proximity. Memory. A last name that still opens doors in certain corridors, even when it slams them shut in others."

She folded her arms to stop them from shaking. "Is this where you offer me pity? Or a job, so you can say you own a Graham too?" she spat out. She wasn't going to let this man humiliate her. She had hit rock bottom, but a small part of her pride was still left.

"If I wanted to own you, Miss Graham, we wouldn't be speaking in a service hall." Devon retorted, his tone was icy and filled with confidence that made Diana almost scoff.

He soon reached into his pocket and took out a slim black card, the kind that felt heavier than it looked. Devon's eyes were on her as he set it on the metal trolley between them. No logo. Only a name and a number pressed into the surface. "Tomorrow. Nine o'clock. Knight Industries, reception. Ask for me."

She stared at the card, then at him. Her eyes filled with confusion "Why?"

"Because gossip won't tell you what you need," he said. "And because you're going to make a dangerous mistake if you keep moving on rage alone."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's an observation." He tipped his head, a movement that should have read as casual and somehow wasn't. "You want the truth about your father. You won't find it in ballrooms."

"And I'll find it in your office?" Diana sounded sarcastic.

"You'll find a direction," he said. "What you do with it will be your choice."

"Devon," Clara's voice rang from the mouth of the corridor. She appeared a second later, eyes sweeping over Diana's apron with relish she didn't bother to hide. "There you are. They're announcing the charity totals."

Devon didn't look away from Diana. "Nine," he repeated, as if the number itself were a promise, then stepped past Clara without breaking stride.

Clara paused on the threshold, head tilting. "I suppose everyone has to make a living," she murmured to Diana, and drifted after him, perfume trailing like smoke.

For a long moment, Diana didn't move. The black card sat in the dim light, absorbing it, an accusation and a lifeline in one.

She picked it up. Her eyes filled with curiosity as she stared at it..

Back in the kitchen, the heat swallowed her as if she'd never left. The floor manager shoved a fresh tray into her hands and barked orders she barely heard. Her heart thudded against the card pressed flat to her palm through the apron pocket.

"Ask who benefits from your noise." His words rang in her head over again.

She worked the rest of the night in a rhythm and without thought, muscle memory and stubbornness keeping her upright. Faces blurred in her mind. She could hear Names being mentioned, but she could barely think straight. Somewhere, applause thundered.

When the last guests drifted to lifts and limousines, when the chandeliers dimmed to a softer glow, Diana stepped out into the alley behind the hotel. Cold air slapped her awake.

She turned the card over again, testing the weight of it.

Help from him would come with edges. It would cut. Perhaps that was what she needed.

Diana slid the card into the lining of her bag, where she had once tucked jewellery she didn't want anyone to see, and lifted her chin.

"Tomorrow," she said to the empty street.

The word did not tremble.