Chapter 4

I kept thinking about what she'd said to me on the phone that day.

My husband is a hedge fund manager. My daughter is about to start at Stanford — clever girl, the joy of the whole family.

I checked the attendee list for the summit. Sure enough, there were their names — Vivian and Sofia, listed as guests accompanying James Whitmore.

I looked him up. He was in his early forties, about my level in the industry. Maybe not quite.

For five years, I hadn't slept more than five hours a night. I'd memorized every technical framework, every regulatory framework, every client preference file. My clients gave me perfect reviews across the board — some had even told me directly that wherever I went, their capital would follow.

I supposed that was how a twenty-three-year-old ended up speaking at the same table as people twice her age.

On the third evening of the summit, the gala dinner was held at Stanford Business School.

I wore a black gown with clean, sharp tailoring, and four-inch heels that I'd learned to stand in for hours without flinching. This gown was the first thing I'd bought with my year-end bonus — six tailors had come to my flat to take the measurements. My last name was embroidered along the cuff in gold thread.

Harrington.

The ballroom was full. I moved through the crowd with a glass of champagne, unhurried.

Then I saw her.

She looked older than she had at the airport five years ago. But the expensive gown, the practiced smile — those were the same. Sofia was somewhere nearby, laughing with a group of students.

I moved steadily through the room, passing close to where they stood.

Vivian glanced at me.

And then her face changed.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, lunging forward and grabbing my wrist. She was already steering me toward the edge of the room. "I don't know how you found this — just go. Don't ruin this for me."

I said nothing. I smiled.

Work had taught me that much. No matter who was barking at you — a difficult client, a panicked colleague, an unreasonable stranger — you smiled. It cost nothing and gave away nothing.

"Stella. Answer me."

Her movement had drawn attention. A few people nearby were glancing over, murmuring to each other.

Sofia materialized at her mother's side, pulling herself up protectively.

Then Vivian looked at me — just once — and raised her voice.

"This woman stole my necklace."

The room went quiet around us.

"She took it right off me. I was just trying to give her a chance to return it quietly."

A ripple ran through the crowd. I felt the quality of the attention change — the sidelong glances, the narrowed eyes.

Someone called for security. Two men in dark jackets began making their way toward us.

"Wait—" Vivian faltered, apparently not having anticipated it going this far. "She's young. If she just gives it back, we can leave it at that."

Before the sentence was finished, Sofia stepped forward, drew her arm back, and slapped me across the face.

"Thief! Give back what belongs to my mother!"

I pressed my hand against my cheek and stood very still.

So this is what she raised.

And strangely — the tight, suffocating weight I'd carried in my chest for years began to loosen, just slightly.

Is that all you are.

I almost smiled. A cold, quiet smile.

Then I heard the emcee's voice from the stage, reading out my name in English.

I straightened my gown. Turned toward the stage.

Sofia grabbed a fistful of fabric at the back of my skirt.

"You haven't given it back! You're not going anywhere!"

The crowd closed in tighter. A dozen languages layered over one another in the air — confused, excited, scandalized.

Then a member of the event staff pushed through the ring of people and caught my eye.

"Ms. Harrington — they're ready for you."

I followed her out of the circle and up onto the stage.

I picked up the microphone.

I looked out over the crowd — found her face in it — and began to speak.

"Tonight, I'd like to tell you a story."

"About how my mother abandoned me. And how I ended up here anyway."

In the audience, Vivian went white.