Chapter 3
Sera
The Palazzo Hotel ballroom takes my breath away.
Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, casting warm light over marble floors that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Women glide past in designer gowns that shimmer and flow like water.
Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos cluster in groups, their laughter low and confident.
Everyone here belongs.
I smooth down my borrowed dress and remind myself why I'm here.
The curator position. The final interview.
Dr. Helen Ports, head of Special Collections at the New York Public Library, is somewhere in this room.
This is my chance to make an impression, to show her that I'm more than just a name on an application.
I can do this.
I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and scan the room. There—by the far wall, talking to a man in a navy suit. Dr. Ports, exactly as I'd imagined her—elegant, poised, wearing a gown that probably costs more than I make in six months.
I take a breath and cross the room, trying to look like I belong, or at least confident.
"Dr. Ports?" I say, approaching with what I hope is a professional smile.
She turns, and I immediately see her eyes flick over me—taking in my dress, my shoes, my simple earrings. I try not to blush as I realize she's judging and cataloging me.
"Yes?"
"I'm Seraphina Romano. I'm one of the finalists for the Associate Curator position." I hold out my hand. "I wanted to introduce myself and thank you for the opportunity."
She shakes my hand briefly, her grip perfunctory. "Yes, we were pleased to see your application." Her tone is polite but distant, like she's already thinking about the next conversation she needs to have. "Your work with rare manuscripts is... adequate."
The word lands like a slap.
Adequate.
My work has never been adequate, and I know that. I swallow back my irritation, trying to appear cool and collected.
"I've been working with restoration for three years," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Mostly eighteenth and nineteenth-century bindings, but I've also done some earlier work. Last month I restored an 1847 first edition Bronte—"
"How lovely." She's already looking past me, scanning the room for someone more important. "We'll be in touch about the final interview, Ms. Romano."
"I was hoping I could discuss—"
"If you'll excuse me, I was in the middle of something." She turns to the man in the navy suit, effectively dismissing me mid-sentence. "Gerald, you were telling me about the Rothschild collection..."
They walk away, and I'm left standing there with heat flooding my cheeks.
Adequate.
I down half my champagne in one gulp and retreat to the edge of the room. Okay. That didn't go well, but it wasn't a disaster. I have other opportunities tonight.
She's not the only person here I came to network with. Not by a long shot.
I spot another familiar face near the silent auction tables. Robert Curry, senior curator at the Met. Not my first choice—he works with ancient manuscripts, not rare books—but he's well-connected. Maybe he knows Dr. Ports well enough to put in a good word.
I approach him as he's examining a piece of artwork up for auction.
"Mr. Curry?"
He turns, polite but confused. "Yes?"
"I'm Seraphina Romano. I work in rare book restoration at Antiquarian Rare Books in SoHo." I extend my hand. "I'm actually interviewing for a position at the library, and I was hoping—"
"I'm sorry, are you with one of the auction houses?"
My smile is tight as I try not to let my annoyance show. What the heck is wrong with these people?
"No, I—"
"Because I'm not interested in any new acquisitions at the moment."
"I'm not trying to sell you anything," I say quickly. "I just thought, since you work in manuscripts and I'm interviewing for Special Collections, maybe you'd have some insight about—"
"The library?" He looks genuinely puzzled, like he can't quite figure out why someone from the library would be talking to him at a charity gala.
"I'm afraid I can't help you there. Different institutions, you understand.
Different funding structures entirely. I appreciate your gumption, but I'm not knowledgeable about that space. "
I sigh. "Of course, I just thought—"
"Lovely to meet you, though." He's already walking away, placing his phone to his ear and effectively blowing me off.
I watch him disappear into the crowd.
Two for two.
My champagne glass is empty. My feet hurt. And I'm starting to feel very, very stupid.
One more try. Just one more before I pack it up.
I see her near the buffet table, and my heart leaps. Margaret Whitmore. I recognize her from the library's website—she's on the board of trustees, and more importantly, she's on the selection committee for my position.
She's also the reason these people are even here tonight. She's a wealthy donor who enjoys acquiring rare books. If I can get in with her, then I know I can really make things happen.
This is it. My last real chance tonight.
I set down my empty glass, smooth my hair, and approach.
"Ms. Whitmore?"
She turns, a polite smile already in place. It tightens slightly as she takes in my appearance—the same quick assessment I've seen twice already tonight.
"Yes?"
"I'm Seraphina Romano, one of the finalists for the Associate Curator position." The words are coming out too fast, but I can't seem to slow down. "I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you how much I admire the library's Special Collections. The Gutenberg Bible alone—"
"How lovely." She's not listening. Her eyes are already drifting over my shoulder, searching for someone more interesting. "We're so pleased with all our finalists this year."
"I've been working in restoration for three years, and I have extensive experience with—"
"I'm sorry, dear, but I don't discuss things with candidates. Conflict of interest, you know." She touches my arm briefly, the gesture somehow both kind and dismissive. "Do enjoy the evening."
She's gone before I can say another word, swept away by a man in a gray suit who gets her full attention immediately.
Dear.
She called me dear. Like I'm a child. Like I'm nobody.
I stand there in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by people who belong, and feel the full weight of how much I don't.
Three attempts. Three polite dismissals.
Dr. Ports called my work adequate. Mr. Curry couldn't get away from me fast enough. Ms. Whitmore called me dear and patted my arm like I was a lost puppy.
I was fooling myself thinking I could do this. Thinking I could compete with people who went to Yale, who worked at the Morgan Library, who were born into this world of wealth and connections and effortless confidence.
I'm Seraphina Romano. The girl who works in a dusty bookshop. The girl whose brother gambles away money she doesn't have. The girl who wears borrowed dresses and cheap earrings.
And I was a fool to think one night at a gala could change that.
The bar is my salvation.
I order vodka. Not champagne. Not wine. Vodka.
The bartender raises an eyebrow but pours it without comment, and thankfully, it's free.
If I'm going to stand here humiliated, I might as well get drunk.
I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the burn ground me. Forty minutes. I lasted forty minutes before completely humiliating myself. New personal record.
"Rough night?"
The voice comes from beside me. Male, deep, with a hint of amusement that makes me want to throw my drink in his face.
I'm not in the mood, and I turn around ready to tell this man exactly that.
The words die on my lips.
The man standing next to me is devastating.
That's the only word for it. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a tuxedo that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body.
What's really striking are his gray eyes.
Against his dark hair, they make him look ethereal and interesting in a way that elevates him from handsome to devastating.
"You could say that," I manage.
He signals the bartender. "Another vodka for her. And I'll have the same."
"I didn't ask you to buy me a drink."
"No, but you look like you need one." He leans against the bar, those strange silver eyes studying me. "Besides, technically, it's an open bar, so I'm not buying anything."
Despite everything, I snort.
"Let me guess," he continues. "You don't want to be here, you're only here for work, and the people you needed to impress just made you feel like you're not good enough."
I stare at him. "Are you psychic or just incredibly nosy?"
"Observant." The bartender sets down our drinks.
He picks up his glass, studying me over the rim.
"You've been nursing that champagne for twenty minutes.
You're wearing a dress that doesn't fit quite right—borrowed, I'm guessing.
And you just had three separate conversations that left you looking progressively more defeated. "
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Have you been watching me?"
"Everyone watches everyone at these things. It's what we do." He takes a sip of his vodka. "The difference is, I actually pay attention."
"Creepy."
"Honest." His mouth curves slightly. "Besides, you're the most interesting person here."
I can't help it. I laugh. It's a full belly laugh and completely unladylike. "Does that line usually work?"
His eyes twinkle. "Usually, I don't need a line," he says, and I don't doubt it.
He's clearly wealthy, and he's handsome.
Women probably fawn over him. "But I'm serious.
You ordered vodka at a champagne gala. You're clearly intelligent—they were talking to you about rare manuscripts.
And you're the only person in this room who looks like they'd rather be literally anywhere else.
" He tilts his head. "I find that refreshing. "
I should be offended. Or at least wary, but there's something magnetic about him that keeps me here at the bar.