I resisted the urge to sigh. “Welcome to Brookhaven Ridge Country Club, Mr. Ballantyne.”
He sauntered up to the bar with the lazy confidence of someone who’d never been told no in his life. He leaned in,elbow propped, gaze raking down my body like he was choosing a cut of steak.
“Tell me,” he said, voice low and smooth, “do they hire bartenders here for their skills... or their cheekbones?”
“Just talent and trauma,” I replied coolly. “Looks are a free bonus.”
He laughed. “I was hoping there’d be sometalenthere today.”
I offered him a smile sharp enough to draw blood. “I live to disappoint.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’d disappoint anyone.”
A shadow fell across the gleaming mahogany bar. Clean, tailored, cut from glass and fire. Theo stepped in, stillness like coiled wire, presence colder than the champagne in my hands. His eyes went straight to Elias—controlled, professional—but when they flicked to me, just for a heartbeat, somethingelsewas there. Fire. Warning. Longing?
I didn’t move.
“Mr. Ballantyne,” Theo spoke smoothly. “Your party’s table is ready. The Lake Room has been prepared as requested.”
Elias barely turned. “Perfect.” Then he jabbed a finger in my direction. “And I want him to serve us.”
Theo didn’t react. Not outwardly. But I saw it. The micro-tension in his jaw. The blink he had to force away. The storm behind his eyes.
“I’m sure we can arrange someone?—”
“No,” Elias cut him off. “It’shim, or I’m taking this meeting elsewhere.”
A dead silence fell. Like someone had cut the music to hear the oncoming car crash. My throat dried. I forced a grin like I hadn’t just been voluntold into a dinner party with the devil. “Guess I’m your lucky charm today.”
Theo didn’t answer. Just nodded tightly and turned on his heel. The clones followed without uttering a word, and my stomach twisted into knots.
Before leaving, Elias leaned over the bar again. His breath ghosted near my ear. “Bring your best champagne... and your worst behavior.”
I barely held back a shudder.
Claire met my eyes, concern etched in her expression. “You okay?”
“Nope,” I uttered quietly.
“I’ve got the bar. Go. Try not to murder anyone.”
I loaded a bottle of Dom Pérignon and three flutes onto a tray, pasted on a smile like it was war paint, and walked through the doors to the private Lake Room.
The next hour was a slow descent into purgatory. Elias grew bolder with every pour, hands brushing too close, comments toeing the line between inappropriate and offensive. His laughter was smug and slurred, eyes glassy with champagne and entitlement. His friends—those interchangeable loafers with Ivy League smiles—egged him on like they were still in some frat house basement.
My stomach twisted tighter with each pass of his gaze. But I kept my voice smooth and my hands steady. I’d had years of practice performing under pressure—years of learning how to make myself small without seeming weak, agreeable without being complicit.
I’d grown up in a world like this, a glittering cage dressed up as privilege. One where people saw me as a decoration, not a person. A bargaining chip. A pawn. That’s why I’d cut the strings. Why I’d flipped the script with my parents. Why I built a life on my terms—and ultimately why they disowned me.
Because no one else was going to protect me.
So I smiled. I poured. I waited.
Until he crossed the line.
Elias’s fingers clamped around my wrist as I set down another fresh bottle of Dom, his grip like a vice. “You should stay,” he murmured, breath warm and thick with champagne. “It’s not like the others here appreciate you.”
I jerked back, but his hold tightened.
