With a deep breath, I stepped fully into the plaza. The string quartet had moved on to Handel now, rich tones floating out from theirinstruments. Conversations ebbed and flowed around me, punctuated by laughter and the occasional exclamation of greeting.
Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server, I took a moment to absorb the atmosphere. An art existed in navigating this social web, one I had been trained in since childhood. Assess the room, identify key players, determine the appropriate approach.
Even in a setting as unorthodox as this, certain principles of diplomacy remained constant.
As my gaze swept across the gathering, I noted details with practiced precision. A cluster of older gentlemen near the fountain, their posture suggesting long-standing acquaintance. A younger crowd by the bar, more animated in their gestures, laughter carrying across the space. Scattered throughout were the companions, moving with practiced grace, their near-nudity contrasting sharply with the formal attire of many guests.
And then, cutting through the crowd with unmistakable authority, I spotted Vincent Stone. Even without his trademark cowboy hat, tonight replaced by an elaborate mask of white leather adorned with silver studs and feathers, he was instantly recognizable. His typical business attire had been traded for something more provocative: shirtless, his sculpted torso gleamed under the lights, silver rings through both nipples catching the light with every movement, paired with tight leather pants and his signature cowboy boots. The combination should have looked ridiculous, but on Vincent, it projected an audacious sexuality that commanded attention.
He caught my eye across the plaza and offered a slight nod of recognition before returning to his conversation with a tall, distinguished man whose silver hair marked him as someone of significance, even behind his midnight blue mask.
As I sipped my champagne, now a Krug Grande Cuvée if I wasn’t mistaken, an unexpected warmth spread through me. Something deeper stirred, a connection I couldn't put aside. Would Theo be among the companions tonight? And if so, what would he think of this spectacle?
But those thoughts shattered as I spotted a figure moving through the crowd, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Even beneath the delicate white mask that obscured the upper portion of his face, I recognized him immediately by the set of his shoulders, the graceful movement, the curve of his lips as he smiled politely at a guest’s comment.
Theo.
His body language carried none of the practiced seduction that characterized more experienced staff; instead, there was an authenticity to his movements that seemed almost subversive in this environment of calculated fantasy.
Like the other companions, he wore only the black silk boxer briefs, the fabric hugging the contours of his body and accentuating his lean, athletic build. A jolt of desire shot through me, mingling with something else, an urgency I didn’t quite understand. Despite everything—the crisis with Remy, the weight of royal obligation, the fleeting nature of my time at the ranch—seeing him brought lightness to my chest that I hadn’t realized I was missing.
The warmth faded as I saw two men approach him, strangers to me, both handsome and exuding the easy confidence of wealth. They wore tuxedos with subtle differences in their masks—one silver and the other gold, suggesting they were a couple or at least arrived together.
The taller of the two leaned in close, whispering something in Theo’s ear while the other ran a possessive hand across his back, settling at the small of his waist. I couldn't hear what they'd said, butI noted the polite smile that graced Theo’s lips, the slight nod of his head.
He stepped away briefly, and relief surged through me, thinking he was declining whatever proposition had been made. But then he returned without the champagne tray, my heart constricting as the two men flanked him once more, their hands now touching him with unmistakable ownership as they guided him back toward the main building.
The intentions were obvious. They wanted him, and he was willingly going with them.
A surge of jealousy hit me with visceral force, burning in my chest and tightening my throat with such intensity that I nearly gasped aloud. My vision narrowed, the periphery darkening as my focus fixed on Theo's retreating form. It felt almost like physical pain.
The rational part of my mind knew I had no right to such feelings. Theo was a companion at Dove Canyon. This was his job, fulfilling the service for which he had been hired. Whatever brief connection we’d shared was nothing more than an illusion crafted by circumstance. I had been trained since childhood to master my emotions, to never reveal weakness or want, yet here I stood, undone by the sight of a young man walking away with other clients.
And yet, watching him walk away with those men awakened a possessiveness within me. I wanted to follow them, to claim him, to declare to everyone present he was mine and mine alone.
The intensity of this territorial impulse shocked me. It was foreign to my diplomatic nature, a violent discord in my carefully composed existence.
I took a larger sip of champagne, trying to wash away the bitterness that had risen in my throat as the image of Theo with those menremained, vivid and tormenting in my mind. I struggled to regain my composure despite the burning sensation that wouldn't subside.
“Your Grace.” A deep, resonant voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. I turned to find Ibrahim Nassar standing at my side, his presence commanding even in this gathering of powerful men. Unlike others, he wore no mask, his striking features fully visible—a statement in itself, perhaps, that he had nothing to hide or that his role transcended the evening's masquerade. His attire, white leather that gleamed under the lights, set him apart.
“Master Ibrahim,” I acknowledged, grateful for the distraction despite the awkwardness of the recognition. “A pleasure to speak with you again.”
A slight smile curved his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Duke d'Moncloud. You’ve made quite an impression during your stay.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Thank you,” I said, surprised by the hollow quality of my voice.
Ibrahim’s gaze followed mine to where Theo had disappeared with the two men. His expression revealed nothing, but I sensed he had been watching this tableau unfold, perhaps expecting my reaction. “I've been meaning to have a proper conversation with you. I understand you've been enjoying our hospitality.”
The emphasis he placed on “enjoying” sent a flush creeping up my neck, something about his look making me feel vulnerable. “Dove Canyon is exceptional,” I said. “In every respect.”
Ibrahim nodded, accepting my diplomatic response. “We pride ourselves on creating experiences that transcend the ordinary.” He gestured toward a quieter corner of the plaza, guiding our conversation toward privacy without explicitly requesting it. As we moved, he continued in a lower voice, “I've observed many clients during my years here, Your Grace. From billionaires to celebrities, power brokersto aristocracy. Each arrives seeking something they believe they cannot find elsewhere.”
He paused, his expression becoming serious. “I've noticed patterns, especially among those in positions similar to yours. Men who live their lives bound by expectation, protocol, public scrutiny. They often find certain connections here that feel... transformative. Authentic in ways their daily interactions rarely achieve.”
His insights were uncomfortably precise. I felt exposed, vulnerable. “And you believe I fall into this category?” I asked, unable to keep a slight edge from my voice.
“I believe you found something you weren't seeking,” he replied. “But even in a place dedicated to fantasy, certain realities must be acknowledged.”
