Page 67 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Nobody is. They keep making up new rules on the fly and calling them etiquette.”

Quinn went quiet again. She looked at the band, the lighting, the floral arrangements, the table numbers in small gold frames, the guests clustered in expensive fabrics and practiced laughter. I expected her to make another joke. She didn’t.

“Someone worked very hard on this,” she said.

I followed her gaze to two staff members near a side door. One adjusted the train of a donor’s gown after it caught briefly on a chair leg. The donor didn’t turn around.

“Yes,” I said.

Quinn’s eyes stayed on the staff. “Invisible labor gets extra invisible in pretty rooms.”

I had no immediate answer. I’d noticed service my entire life because one was trained to notice whether it met standard. Quinn noticed who was providing it, how quickly they had to move, and how often they were ignored.

It wasn’t that I’d been unaware. That was too generous. I’d been aware, but selectively. Awareness without attention became another kind of negligence if indulged long enough.

“You’re frowning,” she said.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s your frown’s preferred alibi.”

“I was considering the labor behind the event.”

Her expression shifted, a small surprise she didn’t quite hide. “Oh.”

The museum director stood across the room, silver hair sleek, black gown severe. People surrounded her. It would take planning to reach her without making myself one more person attempting to corner her. Quinn had been correct in the car. We needed an opening through the charity rather than the relic I wanted returned to me. Public stewardship returned to family memory.

I was forming the approach in my mind when a familiar voice cut through the air behind me.

“Rafe Virelli. I thought that was you.”

Marco Bellandi approached with a glass of red wine in one hand and the relaxed smile of a man who intended to ensure everyone in the room knew we were acquainted. He was a wolf shifter in his late forties, broad through the shoulders, handsome in a blunt-featured way, with silver beginning at his temples and a signet ring that bore a pack crest he’d not inherited but wore as if proximity had made it his.

He headed my father’s transport division. Competent, certainly. Loyal to my father by every measurable business standard.

He was exhausting.

“Marco,” I said.

He clasped my hand, applying slightly more pressure than necessary. I returned exactly enough.

His smile widened. “Still got a grip, then.”

“Did you expect otherwise?”

“Hard to know. You spend so much time in the air these days, I thought your hands might’ve gotten soft.”

Quinn’s attention moved from Marco to me. She’d put on that pleasant smile I’d already learned to mistrust. It was the expression she used at the firm when someone underestimated her and she began quietly collecting information.

“My hands are fine,” I said.

“Good. Your father needs you ready for the ground work, too. Trucks don’t move themselves, and contracts don’t get signed from the clouds.” Marco’s gaze slid to Quinn. “And who’s this?”

The phrasing landed poorly. Not because the words themselves were overtly insulting, but because his tone placed Quinn somewhere between accessory and surprise.

“This is Quinn Bradley,” I said. “She’s part of my legal team.”

Quinn held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”