“I strongly doubt they would think of me as a miracle,” Alva said. “A curse, perhaps. The scandal after my separation was truly enormous, you know. They managed to cover up the reality behind my sudden wedding, but if they hadn’t distanced themselves after Paris they probably would have been cast out of society, too.”

He stopped and stared. “And?”

“And … what do you mean?”

“I mean, what would have been so terrible about that? If it’s a choice between your child and a bunch of rich people throwing parties…” He shook his head. “No. That’s not a choice. There’s no choice there. You pick your child.”

“You know, for someone who must be quite wealthy himself, you certainly don’t think much of the rich.”

“Don’t change the subject, and don’t defend them. You’re the wronged party here, can’t you see? You are brilliant, and warm, and kind, and funny, and god knows brave, and they are fools if they can’t see it. And I know that can’t make up for how they’ve treated you, but I want you to know … I want you to know, you aren’t how they see you. You are a miracle. And I’m not the only person who knows that.”

Her eyes flew to his. “You—I—you overwhelm me. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, for all you’ve said and done today.”

Her gratitude sat poorly, but she seemed incredibly tired next to him, like the weight of the whole day had suddenly landed on her shoulders. Instead he lightened the mood. “Well, let’s not forget you saved me from being murdered by my sister today,” he said.

It took a beat, but thank the stars, she laughed. “We’ll call it even, then.”

“We’ll call it even.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Alva stood in the hallway—thick, lush carpeting at odds with the pattern of the wallpaper, gilt and crystal sconces, the overpowering smell of too many lilies taken out of season—and stared at the door. It was, in one sense, an insignificant door: pine, painted white, with a doorknob that could doubtless be seen on any one of a thousand doors in New York City. In another, more personal and dramatic sense, it was one of the most important doors Alva had ever encountered.

If she knocked on it, Sam would answer. And if Sam answered, the same overwhelming emotion that had propelled her out of her room and down two floors to stand in this particular hallway would propel her into his room, and into his arms, and almost certainly into his bed.

She definitely shouldn’t knock. She’d made her position regarding a romantic relationship very clear, and to knock on this door would only muddy the waters.

The problem was … The problem was he was wonderful.