The Gala Debt

The crystal chandelier in the Grand Ballroom didn’t provide light so much as it acted as an interrogation lamp, exposing every microscopic flaw in the evening’s facade. Mara Vale adjusted her silk sleeve, the fabric thin against her skin—a poor shield against the biting cold of her own bank balance. Three minutes. That was how long she had before the board of the St. Jude’s Foundation realized the promised endowment check from her firm had bounced.

“You look thin, Mara,” a voice dripped with practiced concern. Celeste Morrow stepped into her periphery, a woman whose diamonds were as sharp as her tongue. “Is the event planning business failing? I heard the rumors about your liquidity. Or is it just the strain of

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