3

“There she is! I’ve got eyes on Montana!”

I froze in the hallway, sixty bathroom selfies still fresh in my phone’s memory, as a tall redhead with a headset materialized like some corporate grim reaper.

“Wait, no—”

“Ms. Montana, thank God.” She grabbed my arm with the efficiency of a seasoned bouncer. “Jona, I found her. She’s here.”

“I’m not—”

“This way, please. First course starts in ninety seconds.” Her grip tightened as she steered me toward double doors. “Can’t have our keynote speaker missing dinner.”

“Keynote what now?”

“Don’t be modest. Your speech about overcoming adversity? Pure inspiration.” She practically shoved me through the entrance. “Room’s packed because of you.”

The dining hall hit me like a visual slap. Vaulted ceilings painted with clouds, crystal chandeliers dripping light over two dozen tables draped in cream silk. Every woman glittered in gowns that cost more than my yearly salary.

“Here’s your seat.” The redhead deposited me between a sharp-faced woman with a diamond necklace the size of a small country and a guy whose back was turned, showing off perfectly styled black hair.

I sat, dress pooling around me like evidence of my crime.

“Well, as I live and breathe,” the woman beside me gasped, diamonds catching the light as she pressed a hand to her chest. “Constance Montana. In the flesh.”

Six other people swiveled to stare. My throat closed.

“Good evening, everyone,” I managed, voice barely steady. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake—”

“That would be my fault.”

The voice was pure velvet darkness. I turned left and forgot how breathing worked.

The man was devastating in that effortless way that made regular humans question their genetics. Sharp cheekbones, long lashes, a nose with just enough character to keep him from looking artificial. Dark stubble framed a mouth that belonged in cologne ads.

“I requested the seating change,” he continued, eyes locked on mine. “Wanted to meet our guest of honor.”

Our what now? Before I could correct him, servers descended like synchronized swimmers, placing bowls of soup at every seat. I used the distraction to scan the room, searching for escape routes.

That’s when I saw him. Principal Benito, seated at the head table, the same man who’d interviewed me three hours ago when I was wearing bargain jeans and a polyester blouse.

Shit. Shit. Triple shit.

“I simply must tell you,” Diamond Necklace Woman leaned in, “finish that soup quickly, dear. They never prepare the meat properly at these intimate dinners. Reagan Sutton , by the way.” She extended a manicured hand. “Sutton Sweets? Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”

My father worked twenty years perfecting your candy wrapper crinkle, I thought but didn’t say.

“Lovely to meet you,” I said instead, accepting her handshake while my brain screamed escape plans.

The gorgeous man—Alonzo, according to his place card—chuckled softly. “Not hungry, Constance?”

“I’m fine.” The words came out strangled.

“You don’t look fine.”

I turned to glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands.” He nodded toward my lap, where I’d been unconsciously digging my nails into my palms. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “I don’t need—”

“Medical attention?” His mouth curved in what might have been amusement. “I was going to suggest breathing.”

“I’m breathing perfectly well, thank you.”

“Are you?”

Something in his tone made me actually check. My chest was tight, breaths shallow and rapid. Fantastic. Public panic attack in a fifteen-thousand-dollar stolen dress.

“Deep breath,” he murmured, leaning closer. “In through your nose.”

“Don’t tell me how to breathe.”

“Then don’t hyperventilate at dinner.”

The casual way he said it—like hyperventilating was a minor social faux pas—almost made me laugh. Almost.

“This isn’t funny,” I whispered.

“No,” he agreed, “it’s not. But it’s manageable.”

Reagan Sutton launched into a monologue about charity work, giving me cover to focus on not dying of mortification.

“Better?” Alonzo asked after a moment.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m a fraud wearing someone else’s life. Because that principal over there rejected me this afternoon. Because I’m going to be arrested for impersonating a socialite.

“It’s complicated,” I said instead.

“Most interesting things are.” He lifted his wine glass. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly.”

“Fair enough. Can I call you Constance, or do you prefer the full Montana experience?”

Despite everything, I almost smiled. “Allie works.”

“Allie.” He tested the name. “Short for?”

“My second name Alicia.” The lie came easily. Close enough to the truth to feel natural.

“Alicia Montana. Has a nice ring.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m making conversation. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Usually.” His dark eyes studied me. “Though with you, I’m not entirely sure.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the microphone. The redhead from the hallway stood at the podium. “If I could have your attention, please.”

My stomach dropped six floors.

“We’re honored tonight to have with us a truly inspiring speaker,” she continued. “Someone who’s overcome tremendous personal challenges to build an empire of compassion and giving.”

Oh God. Oh no.

“Please join me in welcoming our keynote speaker, Constance Montana.”

Applause erupted. Every face turned toward me expectantly.

I sat frozen, watching my life implode in real time.

“Go on,” Reagan whispered, nudging my shoulder.

“I can’t.” The words barely escaped.

“Stage fright?” Alonzo’s voice was gentle now, understanding. “Happens to everyone.”

“This isn’t stage fright. This is catastrophic identity theft.”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“I’m not Constance Montana.” The confession tumbled out in a rush. “I’m nobody. I’m a failed teacher who got fired and bombed an interview this afternoon and somehow ended up wearing the wrong person’s dress to the wrong person’s event.”

The applause was dying down. People were starting to look confused.

“Interesting evening you’re having,” Alonzo said calmly.

“That’s your response? Interesting?”

“Well,” he said, standing and buttoning his jacket, “it’s about to get more interesting.”

He walked to the microphone.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” his voice carried easily through the room. “Unfortunately, Ms. Montana has been feeling unwell and won’t be able to speak this evening.”

Murmurs of disappointment rippled through the crowd.

“However,” he continued, “I’d like to take this opportunity to discuss something equally important. The power of unexpected encounters. How sometimes the most meaningful moments come when we least expect them, often through the kindness of strangers.”

He looked directly at me.

“Tonight, I met someone who reminded me that authenticity—true authenticity—is rarer and more valuable than any speech about overcoming adversity. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit when you’re in over your head.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“So instead of our planned program, I’d like to propose we simply enjoy each other’s company. Good food, good wine, and the kind of honest conversation that makes life worth living.”

He returned to his seat as polite applause filled the room.

“That was either very kind or very stupid,” I whispered.

“Probably both.” He picked up his soup spoon. “Care to tell me how you ended up here?”

I stared at him—this beautiful stranger who’d just saved my life without knowing my real name or understanding the full scope of my disaster.

“It’s a long story.”

“We have all evening.”

“It involves bathroom crying, designer dress theft, and a woman named Constance having the world’s most expensive panic attack.”

His eyebrows rose. “Now you definitely have my attention.”

“You might regret that.”

“I doubt it.” He smiled, and it transformed his entire face. “I have a feeling this is going to be the most interesting dinner I’ve attended in years.”

“Just food,” I said, echoing his earlier words.

“Dinner is never just food when you’re sharing it with a beautiful mystery woman wearing someone else’s life.”

Heat crept up my neck. “Is that your usual pickup line at charity events?”

“I don’t usually need pickup lines. And this definitely isn’t usual.”

Fair point.