“I’m not,” she replies, eyes still roaming the crowd.
“Then what brings you here?”
Her mouth tightens a fraction. “None of your business.”
Interesting. Most people either lie or perform politeness. Rowan offers neither. She treats me like a closed door. Like she’s the one with authority here.
I try another angle. “You’re looking for someone.”
“Everyone’s looking for something,” she tells me, dismissive. “True.” I turn the glass in my hand. “But you’re looking for a particular someone.”
She finally turns her head slightly—not enough to give me her full face, just enough to let me know she’s aware of exactly where I am.
“What do you want?” she asks.
She’s direct, giving me no soft edges.
I can feel my patience thinning, the way it always does with her. Rowan makes me aware of my own control like it’s a fault line.
“I want to know why you’re here,” I say, honest enough to be dangerous.
“Congratulations,” she replies. “You still don’t.”
Then she turns away again.
Her dismissal is quiet, surgical.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck.
I should let it go. This is not the place to push. Not with Miguel’s men watching, not with eyes everywhere, and the wrong kind of people listening for weakness.
But my irritation has guts tonight.
“You don’t belong here,” I say, lower.
Her gaze flicks toward me now, sharp as glass. “Neither do you.”
Touché.
“I do,” I correct. “You don’t.”
“And you’re the authority on that?”
The corner of her mouth lifts, not a smile—an insult shaped like amusement.
I lean in a fraction, letting my voice slip beneath the music, into the narrow space between us where it can’t be overheard.
“Well,” I say, calm and deliberate, “I own the fucking place. So I guess I do.”
The effect is immediate.
Her throat works as she swallows, the smallest betrayal of composure. For half a second, she doesn’t look at me—her gaze flicks through her mask and past my shoulder instead, taking in the bar, the security, the staff moving with quiet purpose. Recalculating.
Embarrassment flashes across her face, quick and sharp, causing her neck to flush a deep red shade. Then concern follows, settling deeper. It’s the dawning awareness of how badly she misjudged the room.
And me.
She straightens, spine going rigid beneath the green satin of her dress, dignity snapping into place like armor. I can practically hear the question she doesn’t ask:How long have you known?
