“Ms. McKinley,” he said, as if he’d known me his whole life.
“Yes.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Hi.”
“Welcome to Dominion Hall.” He stepped aside. “Ms. Dane is expecting you.”
I crossed the threshold and immediately felt underdressed by the air.
The entryway was enormous—high ceilings, a staircase curving upward like something out of a movie. Everything was polished and perfect without being cold, as if the place could afford beauty without needing to prove it.
I kept my eyes forward and reminded myself to breathe.
“May I take that?” the man asked, nodding to the box.
“Oh—no.” I tightened my hold instinctively. Then softened, embarrassed. “I mean … it’s flowers. I’d rather?—”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, like I’d said something perfectly reasonable and not slightly frantic. “This way.”
He led me through hallways that seemed to go on forever. There were rooms I caught glimpses of—soft furniture, art that looked expensive, windows that framed gardens like paintings. I didn’t see men, but I felt … presence. A subtle awareness. Like this house was paying attention.
We passed a set of double doors, and from somewhere deeper inside I heard laughter—women’s voices, warm and bright, with a bite of confidence under it.
My stomach tightened again.
The man paused beside another doorway and gestured me in. “Ms. Dane will be with you shortly.”
I stepped inside and stopped.
The room was beautiful in a way that made my throat go dry.
Sunlight poured in through tall windows. The space was arranged like a luxurious sitting room—plush sofas, low tables, a tray of drinks I couldn’t name. And sprawled across it all, like they belonged there the way flowers belonged in water, were women.
Not just one or two.
A whole room full.
They lounged like queens in a private court—legs crossed, bare shoulders, glossy hair, laughter that rose and fell like music. One woman wore a silky robe that looked like it cost more than my monthly rent. Another had on jeans and heels like she’d thrown them on without effort and still looked like a magazine ad. Someone’s diamond caught the light when she lifted her glass.
I hovered in the doorway for half a second too long.
A brunette turned her head, eyes sharp and curious, and I snapped into motion.
Sorry. Excuse me. Wrong room.
But before I could retreat, a voice cut through the air—smooth, controlled, and unmistakably in charge.
“Joy.”
Portia stood near the far window, phone in hand, posture effortless. She looked exactly the way she had yesterday—tall, elegant, composed—except today she wore a fitted cream blazer over a black top that made her look like she could plan a wedding and run a company and dismantle a man with one sentence.
Her eyes landed on me and softened, just slightly.
“Come in,” she said.
My feet moved before my brain could keep up. I stepped into the room, clutching the box, and the women’s attention shifted like a tide turning.
Heat rushed up my neck.
I wasn’t shy in the way people assumed shy meant weak. I could talk to customers all day. I could negotiate prices and correct invoices and make brides feel like their vision mattered.
