Too Late, Mr. Morris: She's Mrs. Blakely Now

trict. The moment my cab pulled through the iron gates, the chaos of the airport faded aw

home, Mrs

to have you

faced from Ryan was jarring. Here, I was the lady of the ho

constant reminder of the fall. The doctor Andrew insisted I see had

birthday party, held in the grand ballroom of the fam

nting at my pregnancy without revealing it. The bespoke locket rested against my collarbon

oom was a glittering sea of New Orleans' elite. I scanned the crowd, my gaze sweep

crisp valet uniform, looking im

st, but as an intruder. He clearly thought I had snuck in, a

at the bottom of the stairs. H

" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "This i

st him, toward the head table wher

ne of magnanimous pity. "Since you're here, I can probably get you

aze to him. "That won

bbed my arm. "Don't you walk away

ct I had poured my heart into for months. It was an elaborate sugar sculpture, a breathtakingly detailed replica of a Louisia

ed me. Not as Jocelyn Fuller, but as the mysterious Mrs. Blakely, Andrew's Par

rew only saw what

hed forward. She saw the sculpture in my

rity case brought a gift. How tacky. Did you make that in your dirty little k

gh the polite chatter of the ballr