The dinner proceeds in waves.
Appetizers. Champagne. Conversation that ebbs and flows around the table. I track all of it while appearing to participate—a skill honed over centuries.
The food arrives. Grilled chicken, yellow rice, things I cannot eat but must pretend to enjoy.
Catherine’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Julian, I don’t believe you’ve told us much about your family. Where did you grow up?”
The table quiets. Several heads turn.
“Various places,” I say. “My family traveled when I was young. Europe, mostly.”
“How exotic.” Catherine’s tone suggests she doesn’t find it exotic at all. “And your parents? What do they do?”
“They passed away some years ago.” True, in a sense. My human parents died in 1802. “I prefer not to dwell on it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” She doesn’t sound sorry. “And what was it you said you did, run a technology company?”
“Yes, some technology ventures and investments. Nothing as impressive as cardiac surgery.” I nod toward Violet. “Your daughter saves lives. I just move money around.”
“Don’t be modest.” Chris’s father, Doug, leans forward. “I looked you up. Blackthorne Holdings has quite a portfolio. AI development, biotech, sustainable energy. You’re doing more than moving money.”
Doug Morgan did his homework. I file that away—not as a threat, but as a data point.
“I try to invest in things that matter,” I say. “Long-term value over short-term gains.”
“A patient investor.” Doug nods. “Rare these days.”
Patient. If he only knew.
Under the table, Poppy squeezes my hand.
“Julian.” Sofia’s voice comes through my earpiece. “Damien just left his room. Heading toward the main building.”
My posture doesn’t change. My expression stays pleasant. But every sense sharpens.
“Direction?”
“North corridor. Could be the restaurant. Could be the bar. I’m tracking.”
“Everyone,” I say quietly so the other guests don’t hear me. “Stay alert. Damien is moving.”
Three acknowledgments come through. Elena from the bar. Nathaniel from the pool deck. Marcus from the security center.
I return my attention to the table, where the conversation has shifted to wedding logistics. Violet explains the timeline for tomorrow—ceremony at four, cocktail hour at five, reception at six. I listen with half my attention while listening to Sofia’s updates.
“He’s at the bar,” Sofia reports. “Ordering a drink. Elena has eyes on him.”
“I see him,” Elena confirms. “He’s just sitting. Watching the entrance to the private dining room.”
Watching. Positioning himself close enough to remind me he’s here, far enough to maintain deniability while still sending me a message:I’m watching. I’m not going anywhere.
“Should we engage?” Nathaniel asks.
“No. Let him watch,” Marcus says. “Remember, we do nothing unless he moves first.”
Poppy’s hand tightens on mine. She can’t hear the comms, but she reads my body language.
“Damien?” she mouths.
