Page 126 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

“Good to know I’ve been drafted,” I mutter.

Sherry softens a little. “For what it’s worth… I’d wear something you feel good in. And… smile. Your smile is very disarming.”

Hmm. I don’t know about that, but I guess we’re about to find out.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of my open closet feeling irrationally furious at fabric, because there’s a specific kind of humiliation in being summoned to a family dinner where you know you’re going to be assessed before you even sit down, and suddenly every article of clothing you own starts looking like evidence in someone else’s case against you.

Too casual, too intense, too much, too little, too Annie, not enough armor…

I finally settle on black jeans that fit like I mean business, a fitted dark green top, my heavier cardigan, and silver jewelry I don’t have to think about.

I leave my septum ring flipped out of sight, which irritates me on principle, but I don’t have the energy to stage a symbolic war on every front tonight.

But there’s nothing I can do to hide my blue hair. I twist it into a bun, let a few strands fall loose around my face, and stare at myself in the mirror for one beat too long.

Storm-gray eyes, defined brows, lips in a thin line because I have no idea how tonight is going to go.

“Cool,” I tell my reflection. “You look like a woman making excellent life choices.”

I don’t, but I look like someone who can survive dinner. That’ll have to be enough.

The formal dining room at Ironwood makes me want to commit arson.

It’s just so aggressively polished.

Long dark table, high-backed chairs, linen napkins folded like they have personal standards. Candles already lit even though there’s still the last line of daylight at the windows.

Silver that probably has history. Crystal glasses that look expensive enough to come with a blood oath.

The whole room hums with the kind of inherited wealth that says we have never once considered whether any of this is absurd.

And at the head of the table sits Vivian Harlan.

I know who she is before anyone introduces her. She has the kind of presence that doesn’t enter rooms so much as arranges them around herself.

Her hair is perfectly styled, silver threaded through dark in a way that looks intentional and expensive instead of human. Her posture’s immaculate.

Her silk blouse probably costs more than my monthly grocery bill. Every inch of her says control, breeding, and the absolute certainty that she’s the standard by which everything else will be judged.

Her eyes land on me before I’ve fully crossed the threshold.

And just like that, I understand what prey feels like in nature documentaries right before something big and elegant eats it alive.

“Well,” she says.

Just a neat little syllable that manages to contain observation, judgment, and disapproval all at once.

I stop at the end of the table and make myself smile.

“Vivian,” I say, because if she’s going to open like that, I’m not giving her Miss Harlan like she’s royalty and I’m kissing a ring.

One of her brows lifts almost imperceptibly.

Good. Let her be annoyed.

Silas is already seated halfway down the table, shoulders rigid, expression taut in the way that usually means he’s feeling too much and trying to make it everyone else’s problem through silence.

Cody is across from him, a glass of water untouched at his place setting, posture precise enough to look uncomfortable on purpose. Duke, at least, has the decency to look openly irritated by the entire setup.