Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Casey
Seven-twenty a.m. My phone alarm went off right on time, but I'd already been staring at myself in the mirror for over an hour.
For today's birthday date, I'd pulled out all the stops like I was cramming for finals.
I'd wrestled my usually grab-and-go mess of hair into submission, curling it strand by strand until each piece fell just right. Applied shimmer primer with the focus of a surgeon. Held my breath while lining my eyes, making the hazel pop under the morning light.
I'd even picked out the dress—that emerald silk number hanging front and center in my closet.
Then my phone lit up. Paul.
"Sorry, the emergency meeting ran long. Rain check on dinner. I'll have my assistant take you shopping—sending you the card info now."
I read it three times. Then put the phone down and went to brush my teeth.
Not because I'd made peace with it. Because my brain flat-out refused to process what I'd just read. Yesterday he'd promised to wish me happy birthday in person. Today I got this.
I rinsed my toothbrush under the tap. Teeth still needed brushing. Birthdays still happened. The world didn't stop spinning just because Paul Vincent was an asshole.
I caught my reflection—all that careful work suddenly felt like a joke. I started pulling out the curls one by one, then grabbed my phone and typed back.
No worries. Do your thing.
The second I hit send, my chest squeezed tight, like someone had wrapped both hands around my heart.
Then Lucy called.
"Casey," her voice thick with congestion, "I'm dying."
"You've got the flu. You're not dying." I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder, digging through drawers for socks. "Need me to grab you fever meds?"
"More urgent than that. Tonight at the Four Seasons, an international business dinner, Italian clients. I booked a translation gig, starts at six, and I can't even get out of bed..."
I found a sock. Stopped. "You want me to cover."
"Casey, I know it's your birthday—"
"I'll do it."
Silence on the other end. Two seconds. "Really? You don't need to think about it?"
I stared out at Boston's flat gray sky. "What's there to think about? Not like I've got other plans."
The words came out smoother than I expected. So smooth it hurt a little.
I opened the file Lucy sent. Italian legal and business terminology. Mid-level difficulty. No problem.
Honestly, beats sitting in this apartment all day.
At least work pays. Doesn't make you feel like some inconvenient obligation that needs managing.
Five-forty p.m. I stood outside the Four Seasons main entrance.
Twin sets of revolving glass doors caught the sunset, throwing light everywhere. Doormen in crisp uniforms worked the line of black town cars, pulling doors open one after another. Everyone who stepped out wore money.
I wore my black suit.
The one I'd bought thinking it looked professional. The one I'd worn to every occasion that "required professional"—business translation gigs, volunteering at the Immigration Aid Center, all those nights Paul said, "There's a dinner thing tonight, come if you want, just throw something on."
Just throw something on.
Standing here now, I finally got what that meant.
It meant: what you wear doesn't matter, because who you are doesn't matter.
Six sharp. An events assistant led me into the ballroom.
I'd never been inside the Four Seasons main ballroom before. Walking in, I'll admit—my feet hesitated. Half a second.
Not from awe. I just needed time for my nervous system to absorb the space.
Three tiers of crystal chandeliers, each strand trembling with fractured light in the warm glow.
Ivory tablecloths. Silver flatware. White roses and eucalyptus, their scent clean and restrained.
About eighty to ninety people filled the room.
Conversation, laughter, champagne flutes clinking—all of it blending into an atmosphere that made outsiders feel like they had nowhere to stand.
My role in this space: translator. Staff. The person standing against the wall who speaks when needed and vanishes when not.
The assistant brought me to a work station near the main table. Tonight I'd be accompanying two members of the Rossi family. Mr. Rossi, seventy-two, one of the Rossi Group's founders, and his wife, Anna Rossi, an impeccably maintained Italian matriarch with razor-sharp eyes.
I introduced myself in Italian. Mrs. Rossi looked me over, head to toe. Her mouth curved slightly. She replied in Italian.
"Your Italian is very clean. Where did you study?"
"Boston University, language major," I said. "Italian was my third language."
She nodded, satisfied, and said something to Mr. Rossi. He glanced over. Nodded too.
Then the host announced tonight's main event.
I was helping Mrs. Rossi translate a French dish on the menu when, in my peripheral vision, the center of the ballroom cleared. Spotlights came up. The host raised his microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give our warmest congratulations to Mr. Vincent and Miss Rossi."
I heard the applause first. Then I looked up. Then I saw him.
Light blond hair. Charcoal suit. Down on one knee, holding out a ring. Paul Vincent, speaking fluent Italian.
"Diana, you are the most precious gift in my life. I will spend my life protecting you."
My first thought, absurdly: he speaks Italian? I never even heard him speak it.
Then my brain completely crashed.
I dropped my folder. Papers scattered across the gleaming ballroom floor, fanning out in a circle.
I crouched down to collect them. The whole time my brain wasn't there, but my hands were. I picked up every single page. Didn't miss one.
"You are the most precious gift in my life."
The library coffee counter. He'd turned around, seen me, and smiled that slight smile. "You go ahead, you were here first." His eyes that particular shade of gray-blue.
"I will spend my life protecting you."
Immigration Aid Center, almost ten at night. I'd walked out to find him leaning against the doorframe, grinning, holding my favorite mango crepe.
In the few seconds I spent crouched on that floor gathering papers, I ran through the last few years at high speed. So fast my heart couldn't keep up before it was over.
The ballroom erupted. Everyone watched the couple under the spotlight. Diana extended her hand. Paul slid the ring onto her finger, inch by inch. Stood. They looked at each other and smiled, bathed in golden light like a magazine cover.
Then Paul's gaze cut through the crowd, over the gowns and champagne glasses, and landed in my direction. Between us, a vacuum opened up. Sound disappeared.
He saw me. Something shifted in his expression—just for a second, almost invisible. Guilt, maybe. Something else. It flickered across his face, then he crushed it down until nothing showed. Then he turned back to Diana and smiled.
Honestly, in that moment, I wanted to walk right up and slap him. But I didn't. I just stood there, gripping the folder so hard it hurt my hand. My heart hurt too.
The lucky thing: I didn't miss a single word of the translation work.
Six rounds of dialogue, switching between Italian and English.
Legal terms, business phrasing. The Rossi family lawyer spoke fast, with a heavy Sicilian accent, but I kept up perfectly.
One hundred percent accuracy. It was the only thing I could control tonight.
Diana rose from the main table, making the rounds. When she reached the Rossi elders, she kissed Mrs. Rossi's cheek. Straightened. Her eyes landed on me.
"This is tonight's translator," Mrs. Rossi said. "Boston University, language major. Very solid."
Diana smiled at me—not malicious, which somehow felt worse. It was a smile that didn't see you at all. Looking down from above. Certain.
"Very professional," she said. Then turned back to Mrs. Rossi and kept talking.
Paul sat at the main table. When Diana returned to her seat, he leaned in and said something. She laughed, resting her head affectionately on his shoulder. He didn't look over.
Mrs. Rossi raised her champagne and clinked glasses with an old friend. "These two kids—perfect match. Same world, same caliber. That's what real compatibility looks like."
I looked down, forced myself to write something in the margin of my folder. The pen scraped across paper, one stroke at a time, slow. Like I could use this to anchor myself here, in this moment, in this job—instead of drifting toward places I absolutely could not let myself go right now.
After the translation work ended, the assistant handed me an envelope. I thanked her, gathered my materials, and headed for the exit.
The party continued. The dance floor had opened, the lights dimmed, and a slow Italian song was spilling from the speakers.
I had to walk past the dance floor. The exit was in that direction. No other way out.
On the floor, Paul and Diana swayed together. Her head on his shoulder, that ring glinting softly in the warm light. His hand on her back. No space between them. Two puzzle pieces that always fit.
I kept walking. Eyes on the floor. At the hallway corner, I leaned against the wall. Closed my eyes. Stood there in the dark for a while.
Something heavy and dull sat in my chest, trying to push up but stuck, going nowhere.
Then I pulled out my phone, opened my conversation with Paul, and looked at this morning's text one more time. Put the phone away. Started for home.
At the hotel entrance, I realized it was pouring. And I hadn't brought an umbrella. So I turned back into the lobby, found a quiet corner near the potted plants in the sitting area, and sat down. Ordered hot tea.
The tea came. White porcelain cup. Dark amber liquid. Steam rising.
I wrapped both hands around it. My palms felt hot. My heart felt frozen.
Music still drifted from the ballroom. That same slow Italian song, low and drawn-out, like something sinking quietly in the distance.
I sat on that couch for a long time. Until the music stopped. Until the rain stopped. Then I finally put the cup back on the tray and stood.
Walking through the Four Seasons revolving door, Boston's night wind hit me full in the face, stripping away every trace of champagne and designer perfume.
The wind cut cold. I pulled my coat tight and stood on the steps for a moment.
Sniffed once. Then said to myself: Happy birthday, Casey White.