Page 27 of His Vow

"Hugh, please." He didn't release immediately. He held an extra beat, his thumb pressing against my knuckle, a gesture that looked like warmth and felt like a weigh-in. "Soleil tells me you're self-made."

"Working class. My mother was a nurse. My father drove a delivery truck."

Hugh nodded. His thumb moved to the stem of his champagne glass, turning it in a slow rotation. "And the Vanguard. You and Declan Hale. How long?"

"Since the beginning."

"Partnerships that last. That's rare." He picked up his glass and sipped. "Reeves." He turned the name over — slowly, testing the weight. "Not a name I come across. Where's your family from?"

Behind my ribs, a twenty-two-year-old was screaming. "Georgia. My father's side."

"Georgia." His eyes crinkled, then narrowed quickly, barely there, before crinkling again. "Who'd you train under? Before Hale?"

The question wore curiosity like a suit. Underneath, a background check. I gave him a legitimate, verifiable name. Hugh filed it behind the smile.

A man appeared at Hugh's elbow — late 60s, silver-haired, the particular bearing of old money and older loyalty. Hugh's hand found my shoulder.

"Gerald, meet Soleil's young man. He's Vanguard." The introduction was casual and warm, like a father showing off his daughter's boyfriend. Gerald Ashworth, a Lattimore Holdings board member and a regulatory connection, had been loyal to Hugh for twenty years.

His handshake was dry, his eyes sharp.

"The Vanguard's acquisition model is impressive," Gerald said. "The Alderton restructuring in particular."

"We believe in precision."

"I can see that." He smiled. Hugh smiled. The three of us stood in a circle of candlelight while I mapped the room over their shoulders.

Hugh squeezed my shoulder. "We should talk properly. Come by the office next week. I'd like to understand what you're building."

The door. Fifteen years. Swinging open because the patriarch's daughter held my hand at her birthday dinner.

"I'd like that," I said.

Dinner filled the long table. White linen, too much silverware, candles reflected in crystal. I sat beside Soleil. Hugh was at the head. Rhys to his right — his third drink in front of him, his collar loosened, his laughter coming louder than the jokes required.

Soleil's hand found my thigh under the table. Her fingers rested there, warm through the fabric. She leaned close. "He likes you." Her breath against my ear. "I can tell."

I turned my head. Her face was inches away. "How?"

"The office invitation. He doesn't do that." Her thumb traced a circle on my thigh. "That's his red carpet."

I covered her hand with mine. Her fingers laced through. We stayed that way beneath the linen while Camille told a story about a yacht in Capri, Bianca interrupted to correct the name of the restaurant, and Dominique reached across Sloane for the bread basket.

Across the table, Rhys refilled his wine. His hand was unsteady on the bottle. A few drops hit the tablecloth. Hugh's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Camille was telling a story about a friend's wedding in Santorini, and the table was laughing, and Rhys was pouring again.

Camille turned to him, her chin resting on her hand. "Rhys, when are we going to see you at one of these things with someone on your arm? You're the most eligible bachelor in this room, and it's honestly a waste."

Rhys lifted his glass. "Still looking. The Lattimore name scares them off."

Laughter. Bianca raised her glass. Dominique shook her head.

I leaned forward, my arm resting on the table. "No one special?" I kept my voice light. Easy. "A man like you — I'd have thought you'd been in love at least once."

His glass stopped halfway to his mouth. The smile held, but the machinery behind his eyes seized. His jaw set for half a second. Then the grin returned, wider than before.

"Once." He took a drink. A long one. "Didn't work out."

He set the glass down and signaled the waiter for another bottle. Soleil laughed and pivoted to the dessert menu. The moment passed. Rhys drank. I filed it.