Chapter 19 · The Exposure at the Gala

The champagne flute cracked in my fist before I saw him coming.

A hairline split up the stem, cold wine bleeding through my fingers. I set it down on a passing tray and wiped my palm on the inside of my wrist like nothing happened. Fourteen years in courtrooms and my hand was shaking over a glass.

Caspian Thorne came at me through the crowd with a leather folder under his arm.

He dropped his father's name at nineteen. Kept the trust fund, kept the jaw, kept the teeth. Dropped the name.

"Helena." He stopped half a step too close, close enough that his cologne fought the champagne. "You look tired."

"You look like you've been rehearsing."

"Ouch." He tilted his head. "How's the bed rest?"

The room kept going around us. Six hundred shareholders in black tie, a string quartet murdering a song I used to like, waiters running trays along the glass wall. I stood very still, because he'd said *bed rest*, and there was exactly one way he could know that word.

My OB had used the word *fragile* twice on Tuesday.