Page 149 of Vow to Claim You

“I can.”

“We’ve already established you’re biased.”

His thumb traces a circle on my lower back. “But also correct.”

We descend the final steps into the ballroom, and every head turns.

Here we go.

The next hour is a blur of faces and names and small talk that feels anything but small. I smile until my cheeks ache. I shake hands until my fingers go numb. I accept compliments on the venue, the decorations, and the music, and I deflect questions about Monsera, my father, and what it’s like to be married to the Norwegian heir with the effortless grace expected of a princess who grew up navigating royal functions.

Aric stays close, a steady presence at my side. He doesn’t hover exactly—he’s too controlled for that—but I’m aware of him constantly. The weight of his gaze when I’m talking to someone else. The way his hand finds my waist when a conversation runs too long.

He’s watching. Evaluating. Protecting, in his silent way. I don’t mind. After everything we’ve been through, his vigilance feels less like control and more like… care.

Don’t get soft, Ayanna. You’re in a room full of criminals. Stay sharp.

But it’s hard to stay sharp when I can still feel him between my thighs—a reminder of what happened in his office an hour ago. Every time I shift my weight, I remember. His mouth on me. His voice in my ear. Him inside me.

My cheeks flush.

I blame the champagne.

And then, across the room, I see them, and the warmth drains out of me all at once.

My father, seated at one of the far tables in a black tuxedo, a glass of wine turning slowly in his hand. My mother, beside him in toned amaranth, her face arranged into the polite half smile she wears at every function I’ve ever seen her attend. My father’s eyes are not on me. They’re on Aric, tracking him across the room. My mother’s eyes find mine instead. And for a moment, I can’t read them at all—whether what’s in them is warning or apology or nothing. She’s my own mother, and I can’t tell whose side she’s on.

I turn away before father can catch me looking.

“Muñeca!” A warm, rich voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to find Camila sweeping toward me in a deep magenta gown that fits the theme perfectly.

“Camila.” I accept her embrace gratefully.

She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, those honey-brown cat eyes sweeping over my dress with open approval. “Look at you. Hosting galas now. Planning charity events. Making the rest of us look like we do nothing but drink champagne and cause problems.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point.” She grins and loops her arm through mine. “Come. Walk with me. I need to hear everything about how the Viking is treating you.”

I let her lead me toward the champagne table, aware of Aric’s gaze following us across the room. He’s deep in conversation with Nikos now, while Serena chats with Chiara and Hyun-seok a few feet away.

I talk with Camila until Marcelina finds me twenty minutes later.

She’s in a black dress with golden chain straps and a deep V, and I wonder if she has everything custom-made or if the universe simply bends to accommodate women like her, because she looks divine.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” she says, kissing my cheek.

“Thank you for coming. I know it’s a long trip from Las Vegas.”

“Please. Any excuse to escape.” She glances around with genuine appreciation. “Though I admit, I wasn’t expecting this level of… sophistication.”

“That’s what happens when you let the princess plan the party.”

“Point taken.”

We fall into easy conversation. She asks about Norway, about Aric, about whether I’ve learned to love the cold yet (I haven’t). I ask about Vegas, about her brother Oskar, who couldn’t make it.

Neither of us mentions Bobby, but I notice the tension she carries in her shoulders.