“You’re staring, Celeste. And not like a woman who’s about to inherit a Manhattan zip code. You’re staring like a girl who’s forgotten she’s playing a part.”

The whisper hissed into my ear, sharper than the chilled Chardonnay I was pretending to sip. I didn’t jump—I’d spent too many weeks jumping at shadows to let a familiar voice break my cover—but my grip tightened on the crystal stem until I thought it might snap.

I was standing on the edge of the Aldridge terrace, the late March air crisp enough to make the guests’ breath hitch in the moonlight. Below us, the “small event”—a high-stakes mixer for the Carter Telecom...