PART 1

“They don’t let beggars sit at respectable people’s parties.”

The blast of icy water hit me square in the face before I had a chance to answer.

The cold soaked through my faded shawl, my worn blouse, and the inexpensive shoes I’d bought that very morning from a thrift shop outside Nashville. For a brief moment, the entire backyard of the sprawling Belle Meade estate blurred together—the white roses arranged across elegant tables, crystal chandeliers hanging from oak trees, waiters carrying silver trays of champagne, and impeccably dressed guests who first fell silent…

…and then burst into laughter.

“Look at her!” the bride-to-be shouted, gripping a garden hose in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. “She just wandered in like she was invited. What’s next? Is she going to ask for a seat at the wedding?”

Several women covered their mouths—not out of embarrassment, but to hide their laughter.

A man in a tailored navy suit lifted his phone and started recording as though the scene were entertainment.

No one stepped forward.

No one said, “Enough.”

I fell to my knees on the soaked lawn.

The grass burned against my skin.

Without saying a word, I hugged my reusable grocery bag tightly against my chest.

Hidden inside it, protected by a waterproof pouch…

…my phone continued recording every second.

“I… I was only looking for Mr. Ethan Carter,” I murmured, deliberately sounding frail.

The young woman crouched in front of me.

Vanessa Mitchell was stunning in the polished, effortless way that came from knowing beauty opened doors.

She wore a fitted ivory designer dress.

Simple diamond earrings.

Perfect makeup.

A flawless smile.

And eyes completely devoid of kindness.

“Mr. Carter doesn’t meet with random women who wander onto private property,” she said sweetly.