The morning began with purpose and a plan.

Not the frantic kind that scattered my thoughts, but the deliberate kind that steadied them. The kind that came when I knew exactly where I was headed and what I intended to extract from every room I entered, every conversation I navigated, and every silence I chose not to fill.

The Annual Ball of the Manhattan Women’s Club was ten days away, and progress had been painfully slow. A string of unforeseen contingencies, delayed confirmations, and quiet ...