Chelsea Bennett delivered her own wedding invitation like a bill that had come due. She dropped the cream-colored envelope onto the janitor's cart,

Chelsea Bennett delivered her own wedding invitation like a bill that had come due. She dropped the cream-colored envelope onto the janitor's cart, looked at the rubber gloves on her sister's hands, and said, “Tomorrow at four. And before you get excited, Mom made me invite you.”

Laurel Bennett stared at the envelope between a bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of trash bags. For three weeks, she'd watched flower boxes, seating charts, and garment bags pass through the offices of Carlisle & Grant Financial while Chelsea talked endlessly about the wedding. Not once had her younger sister mentioned that Laurel might actually be welcome.

“Tomorrow?” Laurel asked. “Chelsea, I can't find a decent dress by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Then don't.” Chelsea glanced toward the elevators to make sure no one important was watching. “You weren't on my list. Mom put you there.”

Laurel swallowed whatever answer had risen to her mouth. “I still have the black dress from Dad's funeral.”

Chelsea gave a short laugh. “That old thing? Fine. Wear it if you want. But if you show up looking like that, I'll have you sweeping the reception hall before the night is over.”

Laurel's face went still. Chelsea leaned closer. “I'm serious. You were born to sweep. It suits you.”

The elevator doors opened behind her. Chelsea stepped inside without noticing the tall gray-haired man standing near the conference-room entrance. She pressed the button, lifted one hand in a careless goodbye, and disappeared behind the stainless-steel doors.

Weston Carlisle waited until the elevator started down. Then he walked toward Laurel.

He was sixty-three, broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, and still carried himself like the farm boy from Indiana who had built a financial consulting company one client at a time. Everyone else in the building called him Mr. Carlisle. Laurel did too, though she'd known secrets about him most executives didn't know, including the fact that he sometimes took his coffee with three sugars when he thought no one was watching.

“Why did you let her speak to you that way in my building?” he asked.

Laurel began replacing the spray bottle on her cart. “Because you made me a promise two years ago.”

Weston's jaw tightened. “I promised I wouldn't tell her.”

“Then don't break it now.”

“I never promised I'd stand in a doorway and listen while she humiliates you.”

Laurel looked toward the elevator. “It's her wedding. Let her have her day.”

“Her day doesn't give her permission to strip you of yours.”

“She worked hard for what she has.”

“So did you.”

Laurel's eyes dropped to the cart. Weston sighed. “I'm invited tomorrow. Head table.”

“I know. Chelsea told Mom her boss was coming.”

“She apparently wants me up front where everyone can see she's important.”

Laurel almost smiled. “Then go as her boss.”

“And not as your—”

“My what?”

Weston stopped. Laurel finally met his eyes. “Nothing, sir.”

He studied her for a moment, then looked at the faded black sleeve peeking from the tote bag she'd brought to work. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

“The dress I wore when we buried Dad.”

“Laurel.”

“It's the only nice dress I own.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but she raised one hand. “Don't, Mr. Carlisle. Please. You'll see me there. Maybe you'll even see me sweeping. She wasn't joking.”

Weston's expression hardened. “Neither am I,” Laurel said.

The following afternoon, Laurel stood outside the ballroom of the Marlowe Hotel with her hands folded over the same black dress she'd worn beside her father's grave four years earlier. She had altered the hem herself, polished an old pair of shoes, and borrowed pearl earrings from her mother.

Her mother spotted her first. “Oh, honey.” Diane Bennett hurried across the foyer and wrapped both arms around her. “You came.”

“You asked me to.”

“I was afraid you'd change your mind.”

Laurel looked through the open ballroom doors. Crystal lights glowed over white tablecloths, pink roses, silver candles, and nearly two hundred guests. Chelsea had chosen everything beautifully.

Then the bride appeared. Chelsea's smile disappeared the instant she saw the black dress.

“I told you,” she said.

Diane's shoulders sank. “Chelsea, please.”

“No, Mom. I told her exactly what would happen if she came dressed like that.”

Guests nearest the door began glancing over. Chelsea turned toward a hotel employee beside the service station. “Do you have a broom?”

The young man blinked. “Excuse me?”

“A broom. Bring one.”

“Chelsea,” Diane whispered.

Chelsea folded her arms. “She's asking for it.”

Laurel felt heat rising into her cheeks, but she did not move. Across the ballroom, Weston Carlisle slowly pushed back his chair. A hotel employee returned carrying a wide wooden broom. Chelsea took it from him and held it out to her sister.

“Go on,” she said. “Since you decided to come as the cleaning lady, you might as well make yourself useful.”