The valet approaches. He’s carrying Waffles’s carrier.
“Ma’am,” he says, setting the carrier gently in front of me.
The sound from inside is soft but familiar—one short whine, then silence. My chest loosens for the first time in hours. I crouch down, unzipping the top halfway. Waffles’s head pokes out with his nose twitching.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I whisper. My voice shakes, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I lift him carefully, holding him against my chest. His body is warm and grounding.
Rowan doesn’t say anything, just waits. His hand stays at my waist until I shift Waffles into one arm. When I reach for Rowan again, he threads his fingers through mine without hesitation. The movement is smooth and practiced.
My stomach flutters, and I hate that I feel safer with his hand steady in mine, Waffles pressed against me, the world temporarily balanced.
I focus on the estate ahead. The doors are tall and perfectly centered, the kind that make you question whether you deserve to walk through them. My throat feels tight again, but I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin.
“You gonna tell me what I’m walking into?” My voice sounds quieter than I mean for it to.
“Sharks. In pearls.”
I let out a short laugh that sounds too thin to pass as confident. “Let me guess. Networking disguised as leisure?”
“And judgment disguised as hospitality.”
“That tracks.” I glance at the doors again. “And you? What are you supposed to be disguised as?”
“Exactly what they want to see.”
“Which is?”
He looks down at me, eyes steady. “Someone safe. Settled. Sane.”
I lift my brow. “One out of three isn’t bad.”
He doesn’t react. The silence stretches, and the weight of it makes my pulse quicken again.
Then his voice lowers, quiet enough for only me. “Don’t trust anyone here.”
“Why not?”
“They collect weakness,” he says. “And spend it later.”
I swallow hard. My thumb rubs small circles against Waffles’s fur, more for me than for him. “Sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” he says, and for a second, there’s something in his voice that almost sounds like truth.
I nod, shifting Waffles a little higher in my arms. His head rests under my chin. My free hand stays in Rowan’s. Together, we start toward the doors.
The woman in black opens them before we reach the top step. “Mr. King. Welcome to Montclair.”
My stomach turns over, but I hold on tighter to whatever courage I can still find.
The room is too bright, and full of people who look like they were born knowing how to belong. Linen suits. Pastel dresses. I can feel every gaze skim over me and keep moving, already deciding I don’t fit.
Waffles shifts in my arms with a quiet huff, pressing his head against my chest. His body trembles once before he settles.
“Rowan,” a man says, stepping forward. He grips Rowan’s hand. “Glad you made it.”
Rowan returns it easily, his expression steady. The man’s eyes flick to me, down to the dog, then back to Rowan. I know the look. It’s the kind people give when they’re trying to figure out what something costs.
“And this must be…?” he prompts.
