Amara hugged her quickly, then ran back to her friends.
Mr. Wilson, who had pretended not to listen and failed, cleared his throat.
“Good use of a ballroom,” he said.
“The best,” Lenora whispered.
One year after the gala, Lenora hosted another event at the estate. Smaller. No press. No socialites invited for optics. Just scholarship recipients, shelter partners, healthcare workers, teachers, legal advocates, foundation staff, and families who had been helped by the programs.
She stood at the edge of the ballroom before the doors opened, listening to the ordinary sounds of preparation: forks being set down, a microphone being tested, children laughing in the hallway, Maya arguing with a caterer about allergen labels, Mr. Wilson reminding a young guard that kindness and vigilance were not opposites.
Vincent approached with a folder tucked under his arm.
“Are you ready?”
Lenora looked at the floor.
There was no mark where she had fallen. Marble does not keep bruises. Bodies do. Memories do.
