Dante Blackwell had six hours to buy a hostess's goodwill before a rumor bought her instead. He stood on the porch of his rustic house, coffee cooling in his fist, and watched the pool throw morning light against the beams. The invitation to the Moonlit Ball sat on the railing, its wax seal already broken. He had clawed his way out of Umbrawood's back alleys to earn that seal. One whisper from the salons could take it back. His silver bengal wound between his ankles, tail flicking against his shin. Dante scratched the cat's ear without looking down. The rumor had a shape now. Someone in the perfume district was telling anyone who'd listen that Dante Blackwell's money came from places decent people didn't ask about. The story wasn't wrong. That was the problem. He went inside and opened the safe under the stairs. He lifted out a velvet box and set it on the counter. Inside lay a necklace of rubies and diamonds, heavy as a small animal. He had bought it two months ago for a different woman and a different plan. The hostess collected red stones. He knew that because he made a habit of knowing. He wrote the card at the kitchen island. No flattery. No apology. Just: For your table on Saturday, if you'll still have me. — D. Blackwell. He sealed the box, wrote her address from memory, and called for a courier who owed him a favor. The courier arrived in twenty minutes. Dante paid him double to go directly, no stops, no salons. Then he waited. He fed the cat. He paced the porch. He watched a leaf turn circles on the pool's surface. At noon a reply came, hand-delivered, on cream paper that smelled faintly of tobacco. Mr. Blackwell — Your gift arrived before your reputation did. I've heard three versions of your history this week and disliked all of them. I'd like to hear the fourth from you, at my table, Saturday. Wear something the necklace won't embarrass. — L. Dante read it twice. He set it down. The bengal jumped onto the counter and sniffed the paper. He let the cat stay. He had bought his seat at the Ball. The rumor had lost the race by hours. But the hostess's line sat under his ribs like a splinter. I'd like to hear the fourth from you. She hadn't blacklisted him. She had done something more expensive. She had invited him to explain, in front of every family in Umbrawood who mattered, where a man like him got a necklace like that. He walked to the safe and looked at what was left inside. Not enough to buy a second story. He would have to arrive Saturday with one that was true enough to survive the room, and clean enough to survive her. He had five days.