Where Ford’s bash flaunted its debauchery behind gauzy curtains, this gathering hides its true nature beneath crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes. Society’s elite mingle over hors d’oeuvres and polite conversation, none the wiser to what will unfold later tonight for a select few.

But maybe that’s part of the allure—masks, food, and wine before disappearing into parts unknown while the silent auction winds down.

The contrast is striking.

Here, women glitter in proper designer gowns, with no lingerie-inspired numbers in sight, while men stand tall in tailored tuxedos. A string quartet plays in the corner. Along one wall, the auction table gleams with curated charity items that disguise the evening’s true agenda.

Whatever awaits, I can’t help but imagine it unfolding in some hidden space below, like the dungeon back home.

An elegant couple approaches, dressed in gold and extravagance. It takes me a moment to recognize them as the Davenports, our hosts, whom I met briefly last night. Now they greet us with that same manicured grace, as if warmth were something they rehearsed for years.

“We’re so glad you made it,” Mr. Davenport says, his blond hair smoothed back for the evening. He extends a hand to Oliver before turning to me with a smile full of perfect white teeth. “Miss Van Buren, lovely to see you again.”

“You as well, sir.”

The title slips out without thought or intention, and a hush lingers between us. Mr. Davenport raises my hand to his lips as Oliver shifts, sliding his palm over the small of my back.

Virginia, his wife, breaks the tension. “I can hardly believe we have a real-life queen as a guest. We Americans tend to get a little excited over royalty.” She takes the hand her husband just kissed between her own. “I trust you slept well after your trip?”

“Yes,” I manage, despite the lump of nerves in my throat.

“Well, you look amazing.” Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, braided around the crown. “Your gown is flawless. Is it one of yours?”

I nod, surprised she knows.

“Mr. Whitney mentioned you’re a designer. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Davenport rests a hand on his wife’s shoulder in an ushering gesture and nods toward the dinner guests on the other side of the room. He guides us through the crowd, weaving between diamonds and tuxedos, until we reach a table where a couple is already seated.

“I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Channing and his wife, Kayla,” he announces.

The dark-haired man stands in greeting, his eyes a startling shade of blue that catches me off guard. For the briefest moment, I think of Sebastian.

Then the thought is gone, swallowed by another round of handshakes and pleasantries.