Ignoring the small talk, Frederick took my hand and led me down into the winery's underground ballroom.
Through the shifting crowd, a flash of red caught my eye. A familiar figure.
Then the sound of a wine glass shattering cut through the noise, and every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward the same spot.
The champagne tower at center stage came crashing down in a cascade of glass and liquid, shards flying in every direction.
"What's wrong with you, young lady? You can't even walk without slamming into me, and now you've knocked the whole thing over!" Mr. Finch, Frederick's business partner, barked at the culprit.
The woman across from him said nothing, her face a picture of helpless resignation.
Anyone with eyes could see that Mr. Finch's suit was worth a small fortune, and now it was drenched in champagne. The temperature in the room plummeted.
The commotion drew our attention. The moment Frederick's gaze locked onto the woman responsible, something shifted in him. I felt it in the way his hand released mine.