The companions' quarters was buzzing with activity when I returned, everyone excited about the coming evening. On my bed I spotted a black box with my name. Curious, I approached the box and lifted the top—black silk-blend boxer briefs that looked stylish yet undeniably seductive.
I picked up the underwear, feeling the luxurious fabric between my fingers. This would be my outfit for the evening and I’d be servingdrinks and making conversation with some of the wealthiest men in the world.
Standing in the shower, I let the hot water sluice away the sweat and dust from the day's work. As I washed, I tried to clear my mind and focus on the evening ahead.Tonight is about making connections, about creating opportunities. About getting closer to building a better life for Casey.
The thought of my brother steadied me, as it always did. Whatever confusion I felt about Ricard, whatever discomfort I might experience during tonight’s party, none of it mattered compared to Casey's needs. He had always been there for me, sacrificing his own dreams to raise me after our dad died. Now it was my turn to be there for him, no matter what that required.
I shut off the water, stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist. The mirror had fogged over, obscuring my reflection, a fitting metaphor for how I sometimes felt at The Ranch.
Who was I becoming in this place? Would I even recognize myself when all of this was over?
I closed my eyes, trying to push thoughts of the duke from my mind. This was precisely the attachment Ibrahim had warned against, the emotional entanglement that could compromise my effectiveness as a companion. Ricard was a client, nothing more. The connection I felt with him, the tenderness, the understanding, was part of the experience we created.
Then why does it feel so real?
I shook my head, dispelling the notion. It didn’t matter how it felt. What mattered was Casey and the future I was striving to secure for both of us. Everything else, including handsome dukes with sad eyes, was a distraction I couldn’t afford.
Chapter 19
Ricard
The journey back from Dallas had been exhausting. Remy's unexpected arrival, the weight of our conversation, and the implications of what he'd proposed swirled in my mind like a tempest, leaving me drained and disoriented. Each mile of the return journey had felt like crossing between two worlds—the royal crisis temporarily behind me and the sanctuary ahead, which I knew would soon be lost to me forever.
As the sleek black car pulled up to the main building of Dove Canyon, my shoulders slumped under burdens beyond the physical.
“We’ve arrived, Your Grace,” the driver announced, his voice breaking the quiet of my reverie.
“Thank you,” I replied, gathering myself before stepping into the warm Texas evening. My legs felt leaden, weighted not just by the day's travel but by the knowledge that each step on these grounds was now numbered.
A different air lingered tonight, charged with energy I could hardly place. Music drifted from some place nearby, not the usual ambient melodies that played throughout the resort, but something more deliberate and refined. Vivaldi’s “Summer” floated on the breeze, bright and evocative.
As I made my way through the lobby, a wave of anticipation washed over me. The usual tranquil atmosphere had been replaced with acertain excitement, like the hush before a theater performance begins. Staff members moved with heightened purpose, their relaxed efficiency now touched with a ceremonial precision.
“Good evening, sir,” a young man greeted me, his smile bright yet professional. “Welcome back to Dove Canyon. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
“Thank you, yes,” I replied, the social mask slipping into place with practiced ease. “Pleasant” hardly captured the emotional turbulence of the past twenty-four hours.
He nodded, satisfied. “The soirée has already begun in the main plaza. Will you be attending, or would you prefer to retire to your villa?”
Ah, so that explained the music and the energy in the air. Vincent’s monthly gathering, the one Julius had mentioned. Under normal circumstances, I might have declined, preferring solitude to process the day’s events. But the thought of being alone with my thoughts, preoccupied with Remy’s words and the looming decision awaiting me back in Avaline, suddenly felt unbearable. “I believe I will attend, thank you,” I replied, surprising myself with the decision even as I made it.
As I approached the entrance to the plaza, the transformation before me stopped me in my tracks.
The space I had grown accustomed to, elegant yet functional, had been transfigured. Hundreds of twinkling lights hung from above, creating a canopy of artificial stars that cast a warm, golden glow over everything below. Tables draped in crisp white linen were arranged in intimate groupings adorned with flickering candles and elaborate floral arrangements. Plush rugs in rich jewel tones lay partially over the stone tiles, delineating areas for conversation and dining.
But it was the people who truly brought the scene to life. Men of all ages and types filled the space, their attire ranging from formal tuxedos to casual linen suits, and in some cases, nothing at all. What united them was not their clothing but the masks they wore—elaborate creations of leather, feathers, sequins, and metallic accents that transformed their faces into works of art while concealing their identities.
These masks went beyond mere disguise to become expressions of hidden selves, some whimsical and playful, others darkly sensual or imposingly regal.
The effect was mesmerizing, a modern bacchanal filtered through the lens of a Venetian carnival, all set against the stunning backdrop of the Texas hill country. I stood transfixed, absorbing everything before me, a mixture of appreciation and mild shock washing over me, as if I had stumbled upon a secret realm with its own peculiar magic and rules.
“Your mask, sir.”
I turned to find a young man holding a silver tray upon which rested several elegant masks. His own face was partially obscured by a simple black domino, his uniform marking him clearly as staff—black silk boxer briefs that left little to the imagination, paired with a small bow tie at his throat.
“Thank you,” I said, selecting a mask of burnished copper with subtle gold accents. It was less ostentatious than some others, but its understated elegance appealed to me.
I secured it in place, feeling the weight of the mask settle against my skin. Strange, how such a small addition could create such a profound shift in perception. Already, I felt less like Ricard, Duke d'Moncloud, and more like a man at a party, anonymous and free from expectation.
