My mother used to tell me that dignity wasn’t something other people could take.
But standing on that marble floor, surrounded by people who would rather watch a pregnant woman struggle than offend a billionaire’s daughter, I wasn’t certain she had been right.
I reached toward another piece of glass.
Something small slid out of my uniform pocket.
My employee name tag.
The plastic clip had broken during the impact, and the badge skated across the polished floor.
It stopped several feet away.
I leaned toward it.
An expensive black leather shoe appeared beside the cracked plastic.
I looked up.
A tall man in a black tailored suit stood over me.
He had dark hair, a sharply defined face, and an expression so controlled that it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
I recognized him immediately.
Everyone in that ballroom recognized him.
Matteo Romano.
Thirty-seven years old.
Owner of Romano Hospitality, with investments stretching from luxury hotels to international shipping and commercial real estate.
The newspapers called him a brilliant businessman.
People whispered different things when they thought nobody could hear.
They said he had connections to families whose influence didn’t appear in financial statements.
They called him a mafia boss.
I didn’t know how much was true.
I only knew that men like Richard Sinclair lowered their voices when Matteo entered a room.
My heart began beating faster.
I expected him to tell me to move.
Instead, he knelt.
Not halfway.
Not with an impatient bend.
He lowered himself onto one knee, directly onto the marble floor, and picked up my broken name tag.
A silence heavier than the first settled over the ballroom.
Matteo turned the badge over.
His eyes moved across the printed letters.
ABIGAIL FOSTER.
His hand stopped.
The change in his face was so sudden that I forgot my embarrassment.
His expression lost its cold certainty.
For an instant, he looked almost frightened.
Then he raised his eyes to mine.
“Your name is Abigail?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Abigail Foster?”
I nodded.
He looked at me more carefully.
Not at my uniform.
Not at my swollen stomach.
At my face.
His gaze moved from my eyes to my mouth, then back again, as though comparing me with a memory.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
He inhaled sharply.
Before I could understand why, Vanessa spoke.
“Matteo, honestly, this is completely unnecessary.”
He didn’t turn.
“If you’re concerned about liability,” she continued, “management can replace her. I’m sure there are dozens of girls waiting for a job like this.”
Matteo’s eyes remained on me.
“Are you hurt?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
My cheek was throbbing.
My back ached.
And every person in the room was watching us.
“I’m all right.”
His expression tightened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
A tiny movement stirred beneath my hand.
My daughter kicked.
Relief washed through me so strongly that my eyes filled.
“I think the baby’s okay.”
Matteo looked toward one of the men standing near the ballroom entrance.
“Find a chair. And ask the medical team to come here.”
The man moved immediately.
Vanessa sighed dramatically.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. She’s pregnant, Matteo. She’s not made of glass.”
He stood.
“Apologize.”
Vanessa blinked.
“What?”
“Apologize to her.”
She gave an incredulous laugh.
“I don’t apologize to employees.”
“I didn’t ask what you normally do.”
Something in his voice made the people nearest us step backward.
Vanessa’s smile disappeared.
“You’re embarrassing me.”
“You struck a pregnant woman.”
“She nearly spilled champagne on me!”
“And you believe those two things are comparable?”
Vanessa opened her mouth.
No words came out.
I watched disbelief turn slowly into anger.
She wasn’t accustomed to anyone questioning her behavior.
Certainly not in public.
Desde luego, no delante de su padre.
Richard Sinclair se apresuró a avanzar, con una sonrisa tan forzada que parecía dolorosa.
“Matteo, amigo mío. Seguro que podemos resolver esto en privado.”
“No.”
Richard se detuvo.
Matteo se volvió hacia él.
“Su hija agredió a alguien delante de doscientos testigos. Eso no tiene nada de privado.”
Richard bajó la voz.
“Piénsalo bien. Esta noche es importante para ambas compañías.”
“Estoy pensando detenidamente.”
“Entonces comprenderás lo mucho que está en juego.”
Matteo me miró.
“Sí.”
Un guardia de seguridad regresó con una silla.
Dudé antes de sentarme.
Me pareció ridículo que me trataran como a un invitado de honor cuando había pasado la noche sirviendo bebidas.
Pero otro dolor me recorrió la parte baja de la espalda, y me agaché con cuidado.
Matteo se percató de la insignia rota que tenía en la mano.
Miró hacia su guardaespaldas.
“¿Tienes otro vídeo?”
El hombre registró su chaqueta y sacó una pequeña de repuesto.
Matteo sujetó la insignia a la parte superior de mi uniforme, con cuidado de no estirar la tela sobre mi estómago.
