Page 7 of Keller

He's not wrong. A seat at the Stone private tables is one of the most coveted invites south of the Hudson River. Exclusive is the important modifier. I don't accept just anyone.

"I prefer quality over quantity."

He snorts. "I guess that's why you're the best."

The room hums with purpose beneath the polite laughter and clinking glasses. Conversations layer over each other, deals disguised as pleasantries, alliances formed between sips of bourbon. I've been coming to these events long enough to know the rhythm. You don't push here. You let them come to you, and they always do.

West shifts his weight, shoulders relaxed but ready. "Anything specific on the menu tonight?"

"Just enjoying the night, West. Chill."

"Right."

I scan the room, letting my gaze move across faces and posture, cataloging who's standing where, who's avoiding whom, which clusters hold real power versus decoration. A state senator stands near the bar. A shipping magnate by the windows. Old money talking to new money near the orchestra, both pretending the gap doesn't exist.

This world makes sense to me. The shipping lanes that made my father a billionaire don't. Out there, chaos moves, and Stone Intermodal, our family's logistics company, tries to keep order. But here I know the rules and the players. I know how to read a room before anyone opens their mouth.

West nudges my arm. "What's caught your eye? I can tell you're honed in on something. Or someone."

I am.

Across the room, near the edge of the dance floor, a woman stands with a tall man in a black tux. She's dressed well in a beautiful green dress, but not ostentatiously. Something about the way she holds herself, alert but contained, pulls my focus.

I stop scanning the room and miss half of what West is saying. The way she angles her chin, the line of her shoulders, I'm certain. She's the woman from the Quarter a few weeks ago.

I go still, just for a breath.

She's here, at a Krewe of Argentum gala. I look at the man she's talking to and realize it's Louisiana's senator. I know him and his wife, and she isn't his wife.

West turns his attention to where I'm looking. He doesn't speak at first, just watches.

"Woman by the floor," I say, keeping my voice level. "Chestnut hair, green dress. She's talking to Senator Mercer."

West's eyes land on her immediately. He studies her for two seconds longer than he needs to. "She's a looker."

I don't say anything.

"Keller."

"Yeah."

"She's here with someone."

"I don't think they are together. Look at how they are standing and talking. Plus, I know his wife."

"Well, she's not here alone. If not him, it's someone else."

"I might just have to find out for myself."

"You're a dog."

"Woof."

He shifts his stance, tilting his head toward the crowd with the resignation of a man who's already lost the argument.

"I'm going to the bar. Want anything?" West asks.

I shake my head, focused on the woman in the green dress. The senator shakes someone's hand and starts talking to them, leaving her alone for a moment. I decide to take the opportunity.