Marco had been right.
Everyone could see it.
The Blackwells settledat the table like generals before a war. Evelyn took the head, regal and absolute, her expression immaculate in its indifference.
To her right, Miriam Harrington, composed and sharp, an extension of Evelyn’s reach.
To her left, Grace Langston, wrapped in olive-green Bottega, warm and deliberate. Too warm. The kind that disarms before it cuts.
Tori leaned into Gideon, brushing his forearm, her voice like spun sugar. “Gideon,” she purred. “It’s been far too long since we’ve talked.”
His fingers flexed, barely visible; a tell only the observant would catch.
“I’ve been busy.”
Tori’s smile wavered for a second. A hairline fracture in the polish. “I can’t imagine what’s been keeping you so occupied.”
A pause. Too pointed. Too deliberate.
Then, with the slow, syrupy precision of a woman convinced she’d delivered a checkmate, she turned her attention to the bar.
To Arden.
The glance was a thorn, buried just beneath the skin.
Arden felt it. The weight of unspoken words. The assessment. The judgment.
Silly, little girl.
She picked up the nearest bottle and poured a drink with calm, practiced ease.
Tori could look. Could measure. Could stare. Could slice.
Arden had seen her kind before. The girls who smiled like vipers in silk. Who mistook good breeding and a last name for power.
She didn’t belong to their world, and she didn’t need to.
Which meant she was the only one at the table not bound by its rules.
She placed the glass down with a quiet clink—a dismissal disguised as indifference.
Tori’s smile stayed, but something in her eyes flickered.
Just for a second. A miscalculation.
She could look. Could stare. Could size her up all she wanted.
It didn’t change a damn thing.
Alex moved first.He didn’t just approach. He arrived. All polished confidence and predatory intent. The kind of presence that made space for itself whether it was welcome or not.
He claimed a spot at the bar like it had been waiting for him. His posture relaxed, but every inch of him radiated control. Ownership. The assumption that everything, and everyone, in the room was his to command.
Arden felt the weight of his gaze before she looked up. It crawled across her skin. Measuring. Possessing.
She didn’t flinch.
She reached for the shaker, moving through the repetition of habit, refusing to let him dictate her rhythm.
