The Savoy Park Club in Chicago looked exactly like I remembered from the photos my mother used to post years ago. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings. Tables covered in crisp white linen filled the ballroom. In the corner, a string quartet played softly while guests wandered around with champagne glasses in hand, their laughter echoing across the marble floors.
There were about 50 people there.
I walked in alone.
Conversations slowed, heads turned, whispers followed me through the room.
Is that Nicole’s daughter? The one who disappeared? I heard she’s been struggling, living somewhere in the city, barely getting by.
I kept my face calm. My black cocktail dress was simple but clearly expensive, the kind of quiet elegance that people who actually have money recognize instantly. My hair was pulled back into a sleek low bun, and in my hands I carried the navy blue box.
I noticed my mother before she noticed me.
Nicole Hayes stood at the center of a group of women, gesturing animatedly while her silver anniversary jewelry sparkled beneath the lights. She had aged well—carefully, expensively. Her smile was polished, practiced, the expression of someone who had spent years perfecting a public persona.
Then her eyes landed on me.
For a brief moment, her smile froze. A flash of surprise crossed her face, then calculation, then mild irritation. A second later, the mask returned.
She didn’t approach me. She didn’t even wave. She simply gave a small nod, the kind someone might give to a caterer passing by.
“Kendall.”
I turned. Behind me stood Ethan Whitaker, holding a champagne glass and wearing a smirk as if we were long-lost friends.
“Well, look who decided to come back,” he said. “The prodigal daughter.”
His eyes traveled from my shoes to my face.
“Let me guess. You came to ask for help.”
I met his stare calmly.
“I came because I received an invitation.”
“Sure you did.”
He stepped closer.
“Here’s a little advice. Don’t embarrass yourself. Nobody here cares about you.”
I smiled faintly.
“Then I doubt anyone will mind if I stay.”
Ethan hadn’t changed much. Thirty-two years old and still drifting through life on his father’s money, whatever remained of it.
I had done my research. His expensive degree in California had led nowhere. A few vague consulting jobs had come and gone before he returned home to work for Whitaker Building Supply in some loosely defined management role his father had created for him.
“Let me guess,” he continued, swirling his champagne. “You’re here hoping for a handout.”
“I’m here because I was invited.”
He laughed.
“My stepmother felt sorry for you. She said you’d probably show up wearing something from Goodwill, but we should be polite anyway.”
A familiar spark of anger flared inside me, but ten years had taught me how to control it.
“Is that the story she’s been telling everyone?”
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