His voice carried farther than necessary.

Conversation began fading throughout the ballroom.

The quartet continued playing for another few seconds before one violinist noticed the tension and lowered her bow.

The room quieted.

The older man looked around at the guests watching them.

Then he looked back at Adrian.

“There’s water collecting above wiring installed before the last major renovation,” he said.

“You should clear this side of the room until I inspect it.”

Adrian laughed.

It was a sharp, theatrical laugh intended for an audience.

“You walk into my gala dressed like that and start giving orders?”

“I’m giving you a warning.”

That answer struck something ugly inside him.

Adrian reached forward and took the toolbox from the man’s hand.

Celeste whispered his name.

He ignored her.

“Maybe you don’t understand how these events work,” Adrian said.

“People like you use the service entrance.”

Then he turned the toolbox upside down.

Metal struck marble.

A flashlight rolled beneath a cocktail table.

Screwdrivers scattered.

Pliers bounced once and stopped near Celeste’s shoes.

Several old brass fittings spun across the floor.

A folded photograph landed face down.

For one second, nobody moved.

Then a young man near the bar laughed.

Another guest joined him.

Adrian smiled.

He nudged a wrench away with the toe of his shoe.

“Pick it up.”

The older man remained still.

His face showed no rage, only a quiet disappointment that Adrian somehow found insulting.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

Adrian pulled out his phone.

“What’s your name?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Fine.

I’ll find out which contractor sent you and make sure tonight is your last shift.”

The older man bent down.

Adrian’s smile widened.

But instead of gathering the tools, the man picked up the folded photograph.

When he opened it, Adrian caught a glimpse.

The photograph showed Halston Conservatory before the grand atrium existed.

The marble facade was unfinished.

Scaffolding covered half the east wing.

Two young people stood in the foreground beside a drafting table.

One was unmistakably Eleanor Halston, the legendary developer and philanthropist whose portrait hung in the building’s entrance hall.

Beside her stood a thin young man with dark hair and rolled-up shirtsleeves.

Adrian looked at the older man again.

Something about the jawline felt familiar.

Across the ballroom, an elderly woman in silver had gone completely still.

“Daniel?” she whispered.

Her champagne glass slipped from her fingers.

It shattered.

The sound silenced the room.

The older man slowly removed his rain cap.

Someone near the staircase inhaled sharply.

Margaret Vale, once chairwoman of the Halston Preservation Board, walked forward as though she had seen a ghost.

“Daniel Mercer.”

The name moved through the room in murmurs.

Adrian felt the first cold movement of uncertainty in his stomach.

He knew the name.

Everyone in serious real estate knew it.

Daniel Mercer had designed the original Halston redevelopment nearly forty years earlier.

He had worked beside Eleanor Halston during the transformation of the neglected industrial site into the district’s most valuable cultural property.

Then, following Eleanor’s death, he had vanished from public life.

What few people knew was that Mercer remained trustee of the land trust controlling the conservatory itself.

Richard Cole knew.

Across the ballroom, Adrian’s father had turned pale.

“Daniel,” Richard said.

Mercer looked toward him.

The