I take my seat beside Kayla, Oliver settling next to me, and ignore the chilled glass of white wine at my place. I’m not about to touch it—not after what happened in Los Angeles.

The men begin discussing overseas investments, accounting issues, and a kind of restructuring talk that sounds too coded to be about business. I’m only half-listening when Kayla leans in, the chandelier threading glints of red through her auburn hair.

“How are you enjoying your visit to the States?”

“I’m still recovering from jet lag,” I admit, nudging the wine aside with a quiet scrape of glass on linen. “We arrived late last night, but I spent most of the day in my suite.”

“Time zones can be brutal. Do you have plans to see the city while you’re here?”

“Oliver promised to take me sightseeing before we return home.”

“Portland has beautiful gardens,” Virginia cuts in.

Kayla nods. “The coast is breathtaking too, even during the winter.”

A female server approaches, wine bottle in hand. She looks close to my age, younger than the wives at the table, with her blond hair swept up in a classy twist.

“More wine, sir?” Her voice drops to a honeyed whisper, fingers lingering on Mr. Davenport’s shoulder.

“Please,” he answers with a wide smile as she bends to refill his glass, offering a view down the front of her dress shirt. She rounds the table, paying special attention to the men, radiating flirtation and sugary perfume.

The blonde reaches Kayla’s husband last. “You’re looking empty, sir.” Brushing against him, she tips the bottle with a teasing glance.

Kayla’s shoulders tense. “Careful, sweetie. You’re pouring my husband’s wine, not auditioning your cleavage.”

The server straightens, but it’s Mr. Channing’s expression that pulls my attention. His blue gaze narrows at his wife, subtle disapproval making her face flame. She snaps her mouth shut and stares at her lap.

Virginia lets out a practiced laugh. “Our staff is always so attentive, isn’t that right, darling?” She places her hand over her husband’s, and he nods, clearly entertained.

When the server reaches Oliver, he traces the condensation on his full glass. “I’m good, thank you.”

I take in the dynamics, the subtle tension undercutting smiles and sips of wine—power and performance, masked by charm.

By the time the first course arrives, conversation is in swing again, but the energy has shifted. Partway through the meal, Gage leans close to Kayla and whispers something in her ear that makes her cheeks flush as scarlet as my nails. Whatever he said, it wasn’t praise for her territorial display.

Kayla swallows hard, but her composure recovers as she turns back to me. “I hear you’re a designer.”

She catches me mid-bite, so all I can do is nod.

“Talented and royal,” Mr. Davenport says, his interested gaze following the movement of my fork. “What a fascinating combination.”