“You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”
His voice came from directly behind me, low enough that only I could hear it over the room’s elegant noise. I didn’t jump — small victories — but my pulse did the thing it always did when he appeared without warning — the thing I’d been trying to train it out of since the office.
I turned to face him. He stood closer than strictly necessary, which I was beginning to understand was simply how Sebastian Laurent occupied space — like distance was a variable he adjusted based on information I wasn’t always privy to.
“Old habit.” I raised my champagne glass between us with the casualness of someone who absolutely was not using it as a shield. “Never attend an event without knowing how to leave it.”
His mouth curved — not quite a smile, something that lived in the neighborhood of one.
“And here I thought you were searching for your next source.”
“Multitasking.” I took a deliberate sip, watching him over the rim. “You wanted me here. I’m here. Care to explain why?”
Sebastian stepped closer, and the room around us did its usual thing — a few curious glances drifting our way, conversations dipping slightly, the particular social calculus of people trying to determine what they were seeing. Being beside him in a room like this wasn’t neutral. It was a statement. He smelled of cedar and leather and the thing underneath that my memory had filed without my permission, and I kept my expression professionally even.
“Because the people in this room need to see that you’re not intimidated by them,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“I know.” His gaze swept over me with an attention that had nothing to do with the dress and everything to do with the way he always looked at me — like I was something he was still figuring out and had decided to keep figuring out regardless of the inconvenience.
Before I could respond, a woman in a silver sheath dress materialized at Sebastian’s elbow with the precision of someone who had been waiting for her moment. Blonde. Polished. The kind of bone structure that suggested either excellent genetics or an excellent surgeon. Her smile landed on me like a precision strike.
“Sebastian, darling.” She air-kissed his cheek without making actual contact. “You didn’t mention you’d be bringing a guest.”
“Victoria.” Sebastian’s voice cooled by several degrees. “I didn’t realize I needed your permission.”
Victoria’s laugh tinkled — actually tinkled, like she’d been taught to produce that specific sound. “Of course not. I’m simply curious about your new… friend.”
Her pause before friend could have filled a courtroom with implications.
“Emilia Rivera.” I extended my hand, channeling every ounce of professional composure I possessed. “Chicago Tribune.”
Victoria’s manicured fingers barely grazed mine. “The journalist.” She said it the way someone might say the inconvenience. Her gaze flicked to Sebastian. “Interesting choice for a plus-one.”
“Ms. Rivera isn’t my plus-one.” Sebastian’s hand settled at the small of my back — warm, steady, and absolutely not helping my concentration. “She’s investigating a story that impacts several people in this room. I thought they should have the chance to meet her before reading about themselves.”
Victoria’s smile turned brittle at the edges. “How… democratic of you.”
She drifted away, but I caught the glance she threw over her shoulder — calculating, cold, directed squarely at me.
“Old friend?” I asked.
“Old acquaintance.” Sebastian’s hand remained at my back as he guided me deeper into the room. “Victoria Ashford runs the most influential society column in the city. Everything she sees tonight will be in print by morning.”
“Fantastic. So I’m being displayed.”
“You’re being introduced.” His fingers spread slightly against my spine, and I noticed, and I resented that I noticed. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference being?”
“The difference being that after tonight, no one in this room can claim they didn’t know who you were or what you’re investigating.” He leaned slightly closer, his voice low against my ear. “You wanted to shake the tree, Em. I’m helping you identify which branches are rotten.”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to step away from his hand and prove I didn’t need him choreographing my evening. But the envelope from the silver-haired man was sitting in my apartment, and whoever had sent it had known my address, my schedule, and exactly which building I’d walked into three days ago.
Sebastian had access to people who might know why. That was the professional calculation. The only one I was acknowledging tonight.
“Fine.” I stepped slightly away from his hand, needing the clearance to think. “But I’m not performing for your social circle. I’m the same person here as I am everywhere else.”
