‘She will absolutely love this,’ said Camilla, sipping a mineral water and looking around Venetia’s Kensington home. The interior of one of West London’s smartest houses had been transformed into an indoor rose garden. Lattice-work trellises had been erected on every wall, wound around with delicate flowers in every shade of pink. Doorways were festooned with pale cream satin ribbon, and layers of lilac tulle had been arranged on the ceiling like fabric waves. On every available surface sat enormous bowls of scented water with tiny tea-lights floating inside. At one end of the ballroom a stage, strewn with petals, had been erected, on which a jazz orchestra would play. Janey Norris, Serena’s PA, was striding around with a clipboard and a headpiece, barking orders into the ether, while at least thirty catering staff scurried around dusting trays of rose martinis with gold cinnamon and arranging canapés on pink porcelain serving trays.
Venetia nodded happily. She was nothing if not inventive when it came to throwing parties. Along with Andy and Patti Wong’s New Year bash and Elton John’s white-tie and tiara ball, Venetia Balcon’s summer party, held every August in Kensington Park Gardens was a must on the social calendar.
With such an impressive reputation as a hostess, Venetia knew she had to create something very special for Serena’s leaving party. She wasn’t overjoyed that her youngest sister was moving to New York – especially with a man of Michael’s reputation – but the least she could do was to give her a decent send-off.
Camilla picked up one of the party invitations. ‘Farewell Our English Rose,’ she giggled, reading out the gold-embossed words on the front. ‘But aren’t roses out of season? Shouldn’t it have been a Daffodil Party, or something? This must have cost a fortune.’
Venetia laughed along, shrugging off the cost of importing all the flowers in from Amsterdam. ‘Mmm …“Farewell our English daffodil”? Serena would love that!’
The two girls moved up to Venetia’s bedroom to avoid the chaos of the last-minute preparations, pilfering a chilled bottle of champagne as they went. It was now half past six. Guests were arriving at half past seven, and Serena had insisted on arriving an hour after that. Despite her experience as a hostess, Venetia was always nervous before one of her social events, and was glad of Camilla’s company – particularly as her sister had just dropped the bombshell that she had finished with Nat.
‘Champagne?’ she said, popping the cork.
Camilla shook her head. She wasn’t quite in the mood to party. Two hours earlier, she had been standing in the rain at Canary Wharf, looking into Nat’s confused eyes.
‘Why do you want to meet here, Cam?’ Nat had asked when she had intercepted him dashing out of his Docklands office, his jacket held over his head against the rain. ‘Weren’t we meeting at Venetia’s?’
Camilla took a deep breath and told him there wasn’t going to be a party – not for him, anyway. More importantly, there wasn’t going to be a wedding. Camilla had chosen this neutral ground because it was cold, anonymous and clinical. Shivering by the Thames, surrounded by huge glass buildings sweeping into the sky, splats of rain falling on their cheeks. Telling him was hard, but the decision had been easy. When she’d returned home from Megève and seen the Tory party Selection Weekend application papers on her desk she’d known immediately what she’d wanted. She didn’t just want to be an MP, she wanted to be a cabinet minister. Or, when she dared to dream, achieve an even higher position. And for that she needed the right partner: a political partner. Not someone whose glamour-model and drug-dabbling past might tarnish her own reputation. After all, Camilla had enough tarnish of her own.
‘Cheer up,’ said Venetia, pressing the flute of champagne into her sister’s hand. ‘You did the right thing.’
‘Did I?’ asked Camilla, suddenly unsure of herself. ‘It’s nice to share nights like tonight with someone.’
Camilla walked across to the long French windows looking down onto the park.
Suddenly she turned back to face Venetia. ‘Jesus, though! Can you believe that Nat told Daddy about our so-called September wedding, too? Before he’d even proposed?’
‘Ouch,’ replied Venetia. ‘I’m sure he was looking forward to having a banking scion in the Balcon family. This news is going to put him in a bad mood.’
‘Bad mood. There’s a change,’ sneered Camilla.
‘No, a really bad mood,’ continued Venetia, her soft features suddenly looking drawn. ‘He was already threatening not to come tonight.’
‘Oh, he’ll come,’ said Camilla, absent-mindedly squirting some jasmine-scented perfume from the dressing table onto her wrists. ‘Why on earth would he miss an opportunity to be the centre of attention?’
The taxi pulled up against the kerb of Kensington Park Gardens and, as Cate stepped onto the pavement she heard a string quartet strike up, ‘Come Fly with Me’ from inside Venetia’s house. She thrust a twenty-pound note in the cabbie’s hand and breathed in the early evening air. She was already in a good mood, and the addition of a Sinatra soundtrack made her feel like she was in a Doris Day movie. Of course she was sad that Serena was leaving for New York, and she was dreading seeing her father at the party, but none of that could dim the happiness she felt now that her own life was finally full of excitement and promise. Cate caught her breath and almost hugged herself as she thought about it: she was editorial director of her own publishing company! How many journalists could say that? Only that morning they’d signed a twelve-month lease on an office, a tiny space squidged between London Bridge station and Borough Market, but it was a cool address with a decent rent and a boardroom-cum-broom-cupboard that doubled as Nick’s office. She’d arrived – not exactly in style yet – but she was definitely on her way there.
‘Where’s your date? I thought you were bringing someone?’ asked Venetia, hugging Cate as she waltzed through the door in a fitted inky-blue Lanvin dress.
‘Ooh, a new man,’ teased Camilla, shaking off her bad mood and giving her sister a warm squeeze.
‘Two men actually,’ smiled Cate, taking a Martini.
‘Your date is coming with another man? How modern!’ said Venetia with a wry smirk.
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Cate, tapping Venetia on the arm in mock reproach. ‘One is my business partner; the other is our investment guy. No gossip I’m afraid.’
‘Famous last words,’ winked Camilla.
‘Farewell Our English Rose!’ scoffed David Goldman to Nick as he pulled his invitation out of its fuchsia tissue-paper wrapping. ‘What the fuck’s all that about?’ he hissed, handing it to a doorman.
‘Don’t get us thrown out before we even get in,’ muttered Nick out of the side of his mouth, making a big show of smiling at the burly security guards standing in front of Venetia’s house. The front door had been roped off from eager paparazzi looking for famous guests. ‘Cate must have been pissed when she invited us to this.’
‘She knows what two handsome young men like ourselves can add to a gathering like tonight. We’re in demand,’ said David, entirely seriously, slowing down as they passed the photographers. The photographers merely scowled. Funnelled into the queue by the door, David started checking out the well-heeled, underdressed party-goers in front.
‘God, everyone sounds so posh,’ he whispered.
‘Irritable vowel syndrome,’ smiled Nick, pushing his friend through the door. ‘Now just get inside.’
At that moment, the street lit up with flashbulbs as a black Mercedes pulled up to the kerb.
‘S’rena. Over ’ere, darlin’’ shouted the paparazzi, elbowing each other to get a shot of the bronzed beauty climbing from the car and walking elegantly across the Kensington pavement. By any standards Serena looked fantastic, her hair swept up into an elegant chignon with sexy tendrils curling onto her high cheekbones.
Momentarily annoyed that the photographers had got wind of the party, Serena nevertheless stood at the foot of the steps and slipped off her vintage Chanel mink to reveal a blush-pink gown in such fine silk jersey it seemed to slither off her body. The total effect was magnificent – the colour of the dress was so pale, the fabric so fluid, that to the casual glance she looked almost naked. She turned slightly sideways and pushed one leg forward so that the long slit in her dress revealed a hint of tanned thigh, bowing her head seductively. She knew that this would be the shot on the front of the tabloids tomorrow morning.
Reluctantly allowing herself to be ushered inside by Conrad Davies, her agent and escort for the evening, she glanced at her Piguet watch. It was eight forty-five: good. Everyone should be here, she thought. Clinging to Conrad’s arm, she moved through the huge hallway, accepting a rose Martini from a waiter and stopping to kiss an assortment of London society players. It was a glittering turnout, she thought smugly, noticing Sting and Trudie Styler in one corner, Elton John and Elle Macpherson chatting on the stairs and Jade Jagger laughing with Matthew Williamson by the cocktail bar – it seemed the whole of London’s fashionable elite had swung by to say their goodbyes.
‘This is just darling of you,’ gushed Serena, embracing Venetia and planting a half kiss on each cheek. ‘Everybody’s here. And all for me.’
Venetia smiled weakly. Thank goodness for Janey and her Rolodex – Venetia had had no idea who Serena’s friends were. Much like Serena, she smiled.
Cate and Camilla appeared through the double doors and all four women squealed together, embracing in one huge, glamorous scrum. Ignoring the stars around them, the Balcon girls huddled together and swapped gossip like schoolgirls at a slumber party.
‘Where’s Michael?’ asked Cate, disappointed not to see him. ‘I haven’t even met him yet and you’re leaving us for him!’
‘I am not leaving you for Michael,’ Serena smiled sweetly, stroking her sister on the arm. ‘I am leaving London for New York. Anyway,’ she continued, helping herself to a tiny carrot shaving from a passing tray, ‘Michael’s on business in Cape Town. So Conrad is my date tonight, aren’t you darling?’ She blew a kiss over at the handsome middle-aged man wearing a crisp white shirt and a cravat.
‘Our last night before we embark on our long-distance relationship,’ he shouted over in a deep Richard Burton baritone.
You wish, thought Serena spitefully, knowing that as soon as there was some distance between them, she was going to fire him. Now she was moving to the US, a London agent was, frankly, surplus to her requirements. Conrad should be grateful she wasn’t telling him tonight and spoiling this fabulous party.
Serena turned back to the girls. ‘So, anyway, where’s Daddy?’ she asked.
No party’s going to start properly without me, thought Oswald confidently, rolling up outside Venetia’s front door in the Bentley. He glanced at his watch: nine fifteen. Good. Everybody should be there now, he thought, screwing up Venetia’s handwritten note asking everyone to be at the party for Serena’s arrival at eight thirty. His youngest daughter should be bloody glad he was bothering to turn up at all. He was deeply unhappy about this Sarkis fellow she had hooked up with. An American was bad enough, he reflected, but this Sarkis was half Lebanese. Why on earth should he turn up to a party to celebrate that? He was glad she’d ditched that plebeian poofter Tom, of course – father was a miner or some such, but if Venetia could find someone like Jonathon von Bismarck, surely Serena could have anyone. Someone of good, solid English stock. He wiped his lightly sweating brow with a handkerchief and turned to Maria Dante in the back seat, taking her hand gently. Tonight’s the night, he thought, gleefully taking in her voluptuous body as they stepped out in front of the paparazzi. Tonight’s the night.
‘At bloody last,’ whispered Venetia urgently to Jonathon. The man of the house was craning his neck around the room, sure he’d just seen an inept waiter spill cranberry juice on the carpet. He would be taking that off the caterer’s bill.
‘What? What the hell’s wrong with you now?’ Jonathon snapped back.
‘Daddy’s here,’ said Venetia, nodding towards the front door. ‘He’s only just arrived.’
‘And look, he’s brought Maria Dante with him,’ smiled Jonathon, knowing that would impress some clients he had invited to the party. They had no idea who Robbie Williams was, but Maria Dante, now that was classy. She was wearing a vast cyan gown, her breasts spilling over the low-scooped neckline, her black hair piled up on top of her head, looking every inch the opera diva.
Oswald and Maria moved slowly through the crowd, nodding and accepting compliments graciously like a royal couple on walkabout among their subjects, finally stopping to kiss Serena. Oswald had not seen her since Christmas. It was no secret she was his favourite daughter, a chip off the old block in more ways than one, but his patience had been pushed to the limit when Cate had let slip that she was moving to New York. In Oswald’s eyes, it constituted betrayal.
‘You’re making a big mistake going to New York,’ he whispered in her ear, his muted voice dripping with superiority. Serena had not become his favourite child by being submissive. ‘You’re my father, not my travel agent,’ parried Serena smoothly.
Noticing that several people had started to eavesdrop on their conversation, Oswald instantly changed gear and embraced his daughter.
‘So – let’s party,’ he boomed, lifting a gin and tonic from a passing tray. ‘We’ve got Sinatra and Serena, both my favourites. Let’s face the music and dance.’
Venetia pulled on Serena’s arm to ask her to stay while Oswald drifted off into the crowd. ‘What?’ asked Serena.
‘So, what do you think of her?’ smiled Venetia, pointing in the direction of Maria.
‘What is she wearing?’ sniffed Serena indignantly. ‘And that big hair! Her head looks like a petrol cloud.’
‘Don’t forget you’re making a speech at ten, darling,’ Venetia reminded her sister. ‘We’ve put a microphone over by the grand piano, so, you know, just a few words.’
‘Do I have to?’ pouted Serena, secretly relishing any opportunity to be centre stage. ‘In that case I’d better have some more champagne.’
Venetia began to work the room with Camilla at her side, weaving in and out of the sea of guests, occasionally bumping into one of her own friends. She had felt guilty about inviting them to Serena’s party, but Venetia didn’t want to feel too much of a stranger in her own house. Right now she wanted to feel popular and loved and supported, particularly when Jonathon was being so distant. He was being colder than ever towards her and never seemed to be at home, always providing excuses to her for his absence – client dinners, overseas deals. Her husband was a workaholic, but she knew the truth was that they were drifting apart. And, much as she wanted Serena to have a fabulous last night in London, the party could not have come at a worse time. That morning she had returned to Dr Rhys-Jones’s clinic to get the results from the last round of tests and her worst suspicions had been confirmed. She had hardly any eggs left – having children either naturally or through IVF treatment would be, within a matter of months, impossible. She’d told no one, stoically blocking it out like bad weather or a light headache. A lifetime with her father had taught her how to switch off when all she wanted to do was dissolve into a flood of tears. No, she would deal with it tomorrow, she decided, when Serena’s special night was over and when she and Jonathon could sit down and sort out their future.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Camilla, resting a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘You seem a bit, well –’
‘What?’ said Venetia defensively.
‘I don’t know. A bit sad? Don’t worry, Van, she’s only going to New York, you know,’ said Camilla softly.
Venetia simply nodded. Let her believe she was sad about Serena. ‘Come on,’ she chirped with forced good humour. ‘Come and Meet Diego Bono, the fabulous designer I was telling you about. Graduated from the Royal College last year. I hear that Calvin Klein and Burberry both want him, but I think I’ve persuaded him to come and join Venetia Balcon as our new women’s-wear designer.’
‘You’re going into women’s-wear?’ asked Camilla, surprised.
‘Logical brand development for us,’ said Venetia, her eyes beginning to sparkle once more. ‘I’m so excited about this, Cam. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.’
Camilla hadn’t seen her sister so animated in ages: she was glowing with enthusiasm. She wanted to hear more, but suddenly they were interrupted by two handsome men brandishing flutes of champagne in front of them. ‘Ladies, ladies, ladies. The drinks are on us!’ said one. Cate walked over, laughing at her sisters’ bemused expressions.
‘Don’t worry, girls. They’re not intruders. Venetia, Camilla, meet my partners in crime, Nick Douglas and Dave Goldman.’
Nick immediately threw an arm around Venetia and Camilla, promising in a slightly tipsy voice to tell them ‘secrets’ about Cate, while David moved in close to Cate, his sharp black suit brushing up against her.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Cate, unnerved by his closeness, but hiding it by gesturing at the decor.
‘Is it always this floral?’ asked David with a smile.
‘Only for birthdays and special occasions,’ answered Cate, popping a mini-strawberry tartlet into her mouth.
‘You know you’ve made it if you live in a place like this,’ said David with a hint of envy. ‘But I do hear Jonathon’s hedge fund is doing fantastically. Mind if we go for a snoop?’
‘Where did you have in mind?’ asked Cate. ‘Have you seen the kitchen? It’s incredible.’
‘I was thinking of somewhere a little less noisy,’ said David, moving close to her ear and picking up a bottle of champagne from a table. ‘Let’s go and explore.’
David took Cate’s hand and led her through the crowds towards the back of the house. David wanted her all for himself. Cate Balcon was his kind of woman. Bright and beautiful, she also had that something special. Breeding. Polish. Whatever. And as such, she would be the final piece in his jigsaw, the ideal way to complete his transition from market-trader’s son to sophisticated player. Feeling his cock harden the way it did when he was about to close a deal, he took Cate’s hand and slipped through an open French door at the back of the house, pulling her into the darkness. The string quartet faded into the background along with the laughter and clinking glasses as they crunched up a garden path.
‘Where are we going?’ laughed Cate, feeling more nervous than she sounded.
‘To explore,’ said David wolfishly, heading towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Let’s see what’s down there!’
‘There’s nothing down there, I can assure you,’ replied Cate, her voice a whisper. ‘Except maybe a few rocks we might fall over. Foxes, owls. Who knows? I think we should go back …’
‘I’ll protect you,’ grinned David, pushing back a dangling branch and leading Cate towards a marble bench lit by a garden torch. David pulled a flute from each of his jacket pockets and noisily splashed champagne into them with a flourish. Suddenly it was quiet. All Cate could hear was the crackling of the garden flame and she was suddenly nervous of the intimacy between them. Cate was notoriously poor at distinguishing between when a man was being nice to her and when he was flirting, but even she could recognize this wasn’t flirtation, it was full-on seduction. She took a sharp intake of breath as David’s broad body moved closer towards her; she could feel the heat emanating from him. She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, narrowing the V of her cleavage. Her hands shaking now, as David moved closer and closer.
‘Cold?’ purred David.
Frigid, more like, she thought, willing herself to relax.
‘You’re fantastic,’ he whispered roughly, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek. The fine line of dark hair that ran from his fingers to his wrist tickled her skin.
‘You’re making me blush,’ she stammered, turning her face slightly away from him. Christ, she thought, I’m behaving like some sort of Jane Austen character.
Time seemed to slow down. His fingers rested on her chin and pulled her towards him.
‘What’s wrong, Cate?’ he asked, still stroking her face. ‘Don’t you want to?’
What was wrong with her? she asked herself, feeling her stomach turn in a mixture of lust, anxiety and nerves. Christ, he was sexy, she thought, looking at the thick lashes around his intense grey eyes and the long, firm, masculine nose. She wasn’t sure what was stopping her leaning gently forward and taking his lips with hers, or running her hands through his wavy black hair.
‘I’m not sure, David. I’m sorry.’
David Goldman was used to an instant surrender.
‘What? You do like men, don’t you?’
Cate looked shocked. ‘Well, yes. Of course. But … Jesus, David. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for us, but … Look, I’m sorry …’
David let his fingers fall from her face to his lap, his expression part annoyed, part disappointed.
‘I guess not,’ he smiled ruefully, smarting from the rejection. He stood up. ‘It’s getting cold. We’d better go back to the party.’
Inside the house, Maria Dante knew she was attracting attention. Having taken a long, hard look at Serena Balcon, she grudgingly admitted that Oswald’s girl was as beautiful in the flesh as she looked in photographs. But that was all she was: a girl. Any man who yearned for Serena Balcon must have homosexual tendencies. Look at her – all skin and bone. No ass to speak of, tits the size of olives; she had the figure of a boy. But Maria Dante – well, Maria Dante was all woman. She could sense all the men in the room – the grown-up men, at least – appreciating her ripe breasts spilling out of the low-scooped Oscar de la Renta dress, the round curves of her buttocks pushing against the silk of its skirt. A glamorous, talented, cosmopolitan woman – exactly what the tired London scene needed; and with Serena Balcon out of the way, she was just the person to fill the gap. OK, so Oswald was an old man, she thought, looking at him with disgust. She was dreading seeing him naked. But it was a small price to pay. He was rich, he was connected, he was a proper English aristocrat with a magnificent home. And Oswald was besotted. She laughed to herself. Who would have thought it? Maria Dante, the little Italian girl from the dirt-poor Puglia village: she was going to become a Lady.
‘I thought you were just sensational at the Nice Opera last month,’ gushed Nicholas Charlesworth, appearing at her side to hand her a glass of champagne. ‘Do you like performing in Europe?’
‘I adore it,’ she breathed seductively. ‘You must come to the Royal Opera House when I’m there next month.’
‘I’d be delighted!’ said Nicholas with a stammer, transfixed by her chocolate fondant eyes. ‘And, erm, how’s the music event at Huntsford shaping up? I’m afraid I’ve been a bit out of the loop with what’s happening, although I think Oswald is planning a little pow-wow at our club, White’s, next week. Just let me know if you need anything,’ he smiled, tapping the side of his nose knowingly.
‘I think Oswald has all the organizational side well under control.’
‘What about the creative side?’
She looked down her nose at this weaselly-faced little man. What did he know about creativity?
‘I will be getting some friends on board to sing,’ Maria said mysteriously. ‘Myself … a couple of arias, maybe Bizet, Debussy, Mozart of course, maybe even some other songs in different styles – Gershwin, perhaps. I am doing a recital at Carnegie Hall in New York a few weeks before, so maybe I will do something from that.’
‘Any sneak previews?’ asked Nicholas hopefully.
Bored, and wanting to have a little bit of fun with all these tedious, pompous Brits, she looked at him, an idea forming in her mind. ‘Sneak preview?’ she smiled, flipping a coil of ebony hair away from her forehead, ‘You just might be in luck.’
Serena glanced at her watch. Two minutes to ten. She smoothed the silk jersey over her thigh, and made her way to one end of the room where Venetia had placed a microphone ready for her speech. She hadn’t prepared anything, but she was a good speaker, and she wanted to make sure her swansong in front of all her old London crowd was nothing short of sensational.
Just then she noticed Maria Dante turning to the small orchestra, who were partway through a version of Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Maria raised a finger to her lips and moved in front of the microphone. Her chest started to wobble as if her lungs were being pumped full of air, then, from out of her scarlet lips, strains of her rich soprano voice began to lift around the room. Charlesworth, recognizing the Rossini bel canto, shut his eyes as if mesmerized by a siren’s call. All heads turned to listen, Maria’s high notes perfectly clear in their resonance and diction, her voice so strong and powerful that there was no need for the microphone. The crowd drifted towards her and, as the room throbbed with an emotional pulse, Oswald looked around appreciatively, basking in the reflected glory. Standing at the back by the staircase, Serena looked on furiously.
‘Cate, Cate,’ she hissed, waving at her sister who, like everybody else in the room, was transfixed by the performance. Cate turned around and mouthed, ‘What?’
Serena grabbed Cate and pulled her behind a pillar. ‘What do you mean “what?”? That woman is making an exhibition of herself.’
Cate laughed quietly. ‘Serena, she’s fantastic. You’ve got one of the world’s biggest opera stars singing at your party.’
‘Oh fantastic!’ sneered Serena, pulling Cate so close that pink fingerprints appeared on her arm. ‘She is trying to steal my thunder. I’m supposed to be speaking in five minutes. Who’s going to want to listen to me after hearing Fat Woman of the Opera?’
Serena’s lip was quivering, her eyes had started welling up with tears. Then, seeing she was having no effect on Cate, she pushed Cate back into the room. ‘Oh, just get Venetia!’
Cate found her eldest sister sitting back on a cream chaise longue.
‘Serena is furious,’ whispered Cate, trying to play down the drama. ‘Can we get Maria off?’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ asked Venetia, a look of panic on her face. ‘I’ll get booed if I try and stop this.’
Incensed, Serena had decided to take matters into her own hands. She walked to the front of the crowd and stood in front of Maria Dante, the smile on her mouth saying, ‘How delightful!’, her eyes blazing and hostile. Oswald looked on from the bar, enjoying the single malt in his hand, but not as much as seeing the cat-fight brewing between his daughter and girlfriend. Oswald crept over to stand behind his daughter and whispered in her ear. ‘Highlight of the evening, isn’t she?’
‘She’s ruining my evening,’ said Serena, her voice wobbling, ‘Daddy, please!’ she implored. ‘Please do something.’
Oswald smiled, loving the drama of Serena’s discomfort, feeling her misery and disappointment build as the song grew, spiralling into its triumphant crescendo.
‘Please,’ whispered Serena. ‘Please.’
Maria’s voice rose like a balloon, filling every corner of the house with light and beauty. Her voice was so strong yet so intimate, it was as if she was giving each and every guest a personal audience. Locking eyes with Serena, Maria drew her hands together in front of her and brought the music to a close, her eyelids closed, her head bowed in exhausted rapture.
The crowd exploded into a rich applause, the musicians looked elated, and Maria Dante smiled triumphantly at her audience. For the briefest moment, she glanced over at Serena, who was mechanically clapping and smiling with perfect, gritted teeth.
‘Get up there,’ hissed Venetia to Serena, looking at her watch.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ purred Maria. ‘Now let me introduce the real star of the evening: Serena Balcon.’
But her words were drowned out by the chatter of the crowd, who were talking excitedly about the performance and drifting towards the bar.
Serena was right, no one wanted to hear her after that performance. Fury welling up inside her, she curled her hands into such a tight fist that her nails clawed into her palm. She wanted Maria Dante out of her father’s life as soon as possible, and she was going to do whatever was necessary to make that desire happen.