The hostess swallowed.

“I can’t ask seated guests to leave their table.”

Sloane Mercer tilted her phone toward the elderly couple by the window.

“Really? Because they look finished.”

“They’re celebrating their anniversary.”

Evan Caldwell glanced at his watch.

“And we’re spending considerably more money.”

The hostess opened her mouth.

Grace arrived before she could answer.

“Table Twelve is available,” Grace said. “Same harbor view, two tables over.”

Sloane slowly turned the phone toward her.

“And you are?”

“Grace. I’ll be taking care of your table tonight.”

Sloane’s eyes moved over her.

Grace recognized the look immediately.

Assessment first.

Judgment second.

Then entertainment.

“Fine,” Sloane said. “Table Twelve.”

For the next hour, Grace did her job.

Sloane did hers too.

Unfortunately, Sloane’s job seemed to be making strangers uncomfortable for an audience.

She complained that her wineglass had fingerprints on it.

Grace replaced it.

She claimed her soup was cold after spending twelve minutes filming it.

Grace brought another.

Evan sent his steak back because it was medium instead of medium rare.

The replacement arrived exactly as requested.

Then Sloane began asking Grace questions.

“Do you actually like working here?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the biggest tip you’ve ever gotten?”

Grace smiled.

“I don’t discuss customers’ tips.”

Sloane looked into her camera.

“She’s mysterious.”

Grace walked away.

By dessert, Sloane was irritated.

Grace had given her nothing usable.

No argument.

No humiliation.

No angry waitress losing control for the livestream.

So Sloane created one.

At 8:17, she lifted her Coke.

Grace saw the movement too late.

Ice struck her shoulder.

Soda soaked her blouse.

Laughter erupted from the table.

Then came the comments about her body.

Grace folded her apron.

“I hope you’re ready to explain this to my husband.”

More laughter.

Grace walked into the kitchen.

Only when the swinging doors closed behind her did her hands begin to shake.

The executive chef stared at her.

“What happened?”

“Table Twelve.”

He looked at her soaked blouse.

“Did they do that intentionally?”

“Yes.”

“I’m getting Frank.”

Frank Dorsey, Harbor House’s general manager, arrived less than two minutes later.

Grace had already changed into a spare kitchen jacket.

“Grace, tell me exactly what happened.”

She did.

Frank’s expression hardened.

“They’re leaving.”

Grace stopped him.

“Wait.”

“Why?”

“Because Evan Caldwell is here tonight for something bigger than dinner.”

Frank stared at her.

“How do you know?”

Grace had noticed the leather portfolio beside Evan’s chair.

Stamped into its corner were three words.

RAINER LOGISTICS HOLDINGS.

She knew the folder.

Dominic’s office used them for confidential development meetings.

She also knew Dominic had a major negotiation that evening.

He had told her almost nothing about it except that a developer needed access to waterfront freight property for a redevelopment project.

Suddenly the name Caldwell mattered.

Grace reached for her phone.

There was already a message from Dominic.

Running ten minutes late. Meeting moved to Harbor House. Don’t wait up if your shift runs long.

Grace stared at it.

Then she typed:

I’m at Harbor House.

Three dots appeared immediately.

I know.

Grace looked through the kitchen window toward Table Twelve.

Another message arrived.

Are you okay?

She hesitated.

Their wedding-day agreement returned to her.

If someone truly hurts you, tell me.

So Grace told him.

A customer dumped Coke on me while livestreaming. I’m physically fine. Don’t do anything stupid.

Dominic’s reply came almost immediately.

Who?

Grace closed her eyes.

Dominic.

Who?

She typed:

Sloane Mercer. She’s with Evan Caldwell.

This time there was no immediate answer.

Grace knew that silence.

She typed again.

You promised.

Finally:

I remember.

Grace returned to the dining room.

Sloane applauded.

“She survived!”

Grace stopped beside the table.

Frank stood several feet behind her.

Evan smirked.

“Where’s the husband?”

Grace looked at the restaurant entrance.

“Apparently running late.”

Evan laughed.

Then the doors opened.

The laughter stopped.

Dominic Rainer entered with two attorneys and his chief operating officer.

He was not surrounded by armed men.

He did not need to be.

His charcoal overcoat was still buttoned against the cold. His expression was controlled.

Evan stood immediately.

The transformation was remarkable.

Ten seconds earlier, he had been sprawled across his chair mocking a waitress.

Now his shoulders were straight.

“Mr. Rainer.”

Sloane lowered her phone slightly.

Dominic’s eyes found Grace first.

They moved to her wet hair.

Then to the dark stain still visible beneath the kitchen jacket.

His jaw tightened.

Grace gave him one look.

Remember your promise.

He understood.

Evan stepped forward.

“We’ve been looking forward to this.”

Dominic did not shake his hand.

Instead he walked to Grace.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did anyone touch you?”

“No.”

“Soda?”

“And stupidity.”

A faint movement touched the corner of his mouth.

Then disappeared.

Sloane’s livestream was still running.

Her viewers were now flooding the comments with questions.

Who is that?

Why does Evan look scared?

Wait—is that Dominic Rainer?

Sloane looked between them.

“You know her?”

Dominic turned.

“Yes.”

Evan forced a laugh.

“Small world.”

Dominic removed his coat and placed it over the back of a chair.

“How small?”

Nobody answered.

Grace sighed.

“Dominic.”

Sloane’s face changed.

She looked at Grace.

Then Dominic.

Then Grace again.

“No.”

Grace said nothing.

Sloane lowered the phone.

Evan stared at Dominic.

“Wait.”

Dominic remained silent.

Evan’s eyes dropped to Grace’s left hand.

She wore no wedding ring while serving tables.

Restaurant work had taught her years earlier that rings caught on gloves, trays, and equipment.

But now the missing piece had fallen into place.

“Yo