“Your guests will love this for pre-ceremony cocktails,” she said, back in work mode. “We can do passed hors d'oeuvres here, or move everything out to the side veranda if the weather holds.”
I nodded, scanning the room. “What about the courtyard? How late can events run?”
“Eleven, officially. But we can extend with notice. The neighbors love us—we throw enough charity events to keep them in canapés and jazz quartets for life.”
I made a note. The space would work. Maybe for a welcome event. Small, tight guest list. Something candlelit and curated to contrast the grandeur of Dominion Hall.
But my stomach twisted as the memory of earlier flooded back.
Silas. The way he’d cornered me on the dock. The way he’d looked at me like I was something dangerous just for wanting credit for my work. Like my ambition was a threat.
I didn’t belong to him. To any of them. This job was my shot. My legacy.
And I wasn’t giving it up.
Not for Silas Dane.
Not for anyone.
Sasha must’ve sensed the tension rolling off me because she paused halfway across the room and tilted her head.
“You okay?” she asked softly. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one we all get after a guest screams at us because their champagne isn’t cold enough. Or because we forgot the gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free chocolate ganache with the hand-harvested Himalayan sea salt.” Her eyes sparkled. “So. What’s eating you?”
I cracked the faintest smile. “Okay, to be fair, that guest had a point. I mean, food allergies are serious, and we should all care where our cacao comes from. But still.” I shook my head. “No one deserves to be screamed at. Especially not the people trying to keep the wheels from falling off.”
I hesitated.
Then sighed and let the clipboard drop to my side. “You ever work your ass off to be taken seriously, just to have a man come along and act like you’re in his way?”
Sasha snorted. “Is that rhetorical, or should I start alphabetizing the list of times?”
That made me smile.
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” I said quietly. “I built my business from scratch in Atlanta. No family money, no connections. Just grit and cold emails and favors I couldn’t afford to owe.”
Sasha’s face softened, the friendliness in her expression shaded now with something more grounded. “Where you from?”
“Outside Little Rock,” I admitted. “Nowhere fancy. Not the pretty part people put in postcards. Grew up watching my mom work doubles in a diner just to keep the lights on. I used to dream about hotels like this. I used to steal napkins from catering gigs and practice folding them like I’d seen in bridal magazines.”
She let out a low whistle. “Damn, Portia. You really did the climb.”
“I did. And I’m not about to be dismissed like some amateur who wandered in.” I looked around the room, the soft light catching on polished wood and delicate trim. “This job? It’s everything. If I get this right, I don’t just keep my client list—I grow it. Charleston, New York, international clients. I could double my rates, maybe even finally open a second office.”
Sasha nodded, then leaned against the doorframe like she had nowhere else to be.
“Well,” she said, “as someone who also lives her life pleasing the wealthy and impossible, let me just say—I see you. And that’s not nothing.”
I felt the tightness in my chest ease a little.
“Besides,” she added with a smirk, “those Dane men? They weren’t born with the silver spoons either. Word is, they didn’t even touch their father’s money until a few years ago. Some kind of inheritance delay.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah. They came back from all that covert ops stuff and found out their dad left them more money than God. But it’s like—only a few of them knew what to do with it. I think Ryker and Marcus got the hang of it fast. Atlas just sort of hides. Elias? Still treats money like a glitch in the Matrix. And Silas …”
