Nathan crossed the ballroom without hurrying.
That was the first thing my father misunderstood.
Robert Campbell had spent his entire life believing power announced itself loudly.
Power bought the biggest table, gave the longest speech, laughed hardest at its own jokes.
Power made sure people knew when it had entered the room.
Nathan was the opposite.
He moved quietly, and rooms adjusted around him.
The two security men stayed several steps behind.
One stopped near the ballroom doors.
The other spoke briefly into an earpiece and turned toward the terrace.
Nathan never looked at them.
His eyes stayed on me.
My wet hair was pinned badly at the back of my head.
The black emergency dress I kept in my car was simpler than anything else in the ballroom.
I had wiped away most of my ruined makeup.
Nathan took all of that in before he reached me.
His jaw tightened.
“Are you hurt?”
“My hip is sore.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Did anyone help you out?”
I looked around the room.
“No.”
Nathan nodded once.
Not angrily.
That frightened my father more than anger would have.
“Meredith,” Dad said, recovering his voice, “aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”
Nathan turned slowly.
My mother gave a nervous laugh.
“Yes, Meredith.
You’ve created quite an entrance for this gentleman.”
I almost admired the sentence.
Ten minutes earlier, my father had pushed me into a fountain.
Somehow my mother had already rearranged the evening until I was responsible for the discomfort in the room.
Bradford Wellington’s father was still standing.
Unlike my parents, he knew exactly who Nathan was.
“Nathan Reed,” he said.
His voice carried farther than he probably intended.
Several heads turned sharply.
My father glanced toward him.
“You know him?”
Mr.
Wellington did not answer immediately.
Nathan did.
“We’ve met.”
That was technically true.
Nathan Reed was founder and managing partner of Reed Capital, a private investment firm known in certain circles for buying distressed hospitality and commercial properties, restructuring them, and making very wealthy people either richer or suddenly unemployed.
He hated society pages.
He rarely gave interviews.
Most photographs of him were taken at conferences, usually with his head turned or his hand raised mid-sentence.
My parents had heard his name.
They simply had never imagined that name could have anything to do with me.
My father straightened his jacket.
“Well,” he said, “any friend of Meredith’s is welcome.”
Nathan looked at me.
