Page 16 of Broken Blades

"Or offside," the other added.

They were charming. Objectively. The kind of effortless confidence that came from being young and talented and accustomed to doors opening before they knocked.

But their eyes kept drifting. Down. Back up. Lingering.

I felt studied. Catalogued. Reduced to the dress and the mask and the last name.

"We should get drinks sometime," the dark-haired one said. "Show you what Detroit nightlife actually looks like."

My mouth opened—some deflection forming—but a hand settled on my shoulder before I could speak.

Dad's voice cut through the space between us like a blade wrapped in velvet. "Gentlemen."

Both players straightened immediately. The casual lean evaporated. Shoulders squared.

"Mr. Harrington." The blond one's grin turned respectful. Deferential. "Great event."

"Appreciate you both coming." Dad's hand remained on my shoulder—warm, proprietary, unmistakable. "I trust you're enjoying yourselves?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "The silent auction closes in twenty minutes. I'm sure you'll want to get your bids in."

It wasn't a suggestion.

The dark-haired player nodded, already backing away. "Right. Yeah. Good to meet you, Miss Harrington."

They dissolved into the crowd.

Dad's hand stayed fixed on my shoulder for another beat before releasing. When I glanced up, his expression had softened into something almost apologetic.

"You okay?"

"Fine." I smoothed my dress. "They were just being friendly."

"They were being twenty-three." His tone carried dry amusement, but beneath it ran something harder. Protective. "You don't have to tolerate that."

I watched the players disappear toward the auction tables, their laughter audible even across the ballroom. The way they'd shifted when Dad appeared—instant deference, automatic respect—settled in my chest like a stone. Power. Real power. The kind that didn't need to be loud.

"I handled it," I said quietly.

Dad's hand found the small of my back again, steering me toward the gallery wing. "I know you did."

The noise pressed against my temples—laughter layering over string quartet melodies, champagne flutes clinking, heels striking marble in rhythms that never quite synchronized. Perfume hung thick in the air, a dozen competing fragrances that blurred together into something cloying and artificial.

I'd barely eaten anything all day.

Nerves had killed my appetite that morning. The fitting with Mom. Dad's reminders about posture, about handshakes, about how I needed to represent. By the time we'd left for the gala, my stomach had twisted itself into something too tight for food.

But now, standing in the thick of it—cameras flashing near the silent auction, investors studying me like a prospectus they hadn't decided to approve—hunger hit with unexpected force.

I slipped away while Dad engaged a cluster of donors near the staircase.

The dessert table occupied a corner of the gallery wing, slightly removed from the main flow of traffic. White linen draped to the floor. Silver platters arranged with geometric precision.

Chocolate-covered strawberries glistened under soft lighting. Mini truffles dusted with cocoa powder formed perfect pyramids. Dark chocolate squares stamped with the Serpents logo sat in neat rows.

My hand reached for one strawberry.