A small laugh huffs from her as she takes a sip of her drink. "Possessive. It's a good look on you, champ."
"Champ," I repeat, testing the weight of it. "Has a nice ring to it."
A woman breaks away from the crowd near the bar—Miller's girlfriend, Chloe. She's holding two flutes of champagne, navigating the sea of bodies with practiced ease. She spots us and beelines for the table.
"Oh my god, Zoë!" Chloe practically shouts over the music, setting the glasses down and grabbing Zoë's hand. "You were incredible on TV. The way you looked at him when he lifted the Cup? I literally cried."
Zoë shifts, turning slightly but keeping her seat firmly on my thighs. "It was a good camera angle."
"It wasn't the angle, it was the face!" Chloe fans herself, then looks at me. "You did okay too, Rossi."
"I'll try to do better next time, Chloe."
"Shut up." She turns back to Zoë, her eyes wide. "But seriously, are you guys coming to the gala next month? The foundation dinner?"
Zoë glances at me, a silent question. "We'll be there," I say, squeezing her side. "Assuming she lets me out of the house."
"I haven't decided yet," Zoë says, her voice dry. "He's insufferable when he wins."
"You love it," I murmur against her neck.
"I tolerate it," she counters, but she leans into the touch. "There's a difference."
Chloe laughs, oblivious to the current running between us. "Well, save a dance for me. I have to go rescue Miller before he starts negotiating with the bartender." She grabs a champagne flute and vanishes back into the fray.
Zoë turns fully in my arms, straddling my legs. She sets her glass down on the table and brackets my face with her hands.
"You did good, Rossi," she says, her voice dropping, cutting through the noise of the room. "You really fucking did."
I grip her hips, pulling her tighter against me. "You anchored me," I correct her. "You always do."
She studies me for a beat, her eyes searching mine. Then she leans in, kissing me hard. It's a claim. When she pulls back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark.
"Drink your scotch, Gio," she says, reaching for her own glass. "The night is young."
Chloe is barely gone before another woman slides into her vacated spot. This one is taller, wearing a dress that probably costs more than my first car, holding her phone like a weapon.
"Zoë," she says, ignoring me completely. "I saw the piece in *Vogue*. The spread on your winter line? It's incredible."
Zoë shifts on my lap, turning to face her but keeping her hand resting on my shoulder. "Thanks, Elena. The lighting was decent."
"Decent?" Elena laughs, shaking her head. "It was visionary. That wool coat with the leather structuring? I need it for the gala next month. Do you have samples, or do I have to beg?"
"I might have a prototype left," Zoë says, her voice shifting. It's confident. Professional. "But the wool is tricky. It breathes differently than the synthetic blends you're used to."
"I don't care what it breathes," Elena says, waving a hand. "I care about the silhouette. You've cornered the market on 'power casual,' Zoë. It's intimidating."
"Intimidating is the point," Zoë says dryly.
I watch her face as she talks about sketches and fabric weights. She's explaining her work with the same precision she uses to dismantle a defense strategy. She built an empire from scratch while I was busy chasing a puck. She kicked the doors down herself. Elena finally glances at me, as if remembering I'm here.
"Sorry, Gio. We're ignoring the Stanley Cup winner."
"He's used to it," Zoë says, her thumb stroking the back of my neck. "He knows when to stay quiet."
I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her back against me. "I like watching you work."
"Good," Zoë says, turning her attention back to Elena. "Send me your measurements. If the coat fits, you can wear it."
