“I JUST NEED ONE MAN TO WALK THROUGH THOSE DOORS WITH ME,” THE MAID WHISPERED—AND HER MAFIA BOSS CLOSED THE BOOK IN HIS HAND. Claire Morgan had spent eleven years avoiding her high school reunion. Tomorrow night, she had finally run out of excuses.

Claire Morgan stood in front of the full-length mirror in the guest bedroom of Vincent Marino’s townhouse, staring at a woman she barely recognized.

The red dress wasn’t just a piece of clothing. It was a statement. It was tailored silk that draped perfectly across her shoulders, cinched at her waist, and fell in a sleek, dangerous line to her calves. She had paired it with black heels she hadn’t worn since her thirties and a simple silver bracelet her grandmother had given her.

Her hair was down, falling in soft waves around her face.

She didn't look like a housekeeper.

She looked like a woman who owned the room.

A quiet knock sounded at the door.

“It’s open,” Claire said, her voice betraying a slight tremor.

The door opened. Vincent stepped inside.

He was wearing a perfectly cut charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and no tie. He looked effortlessly powerful, the kind of man who commanded attention simply by breathing.

Vincent stopped.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

For a terrifying five seconds, he didn’t say a word. The silence in the room stretched so tight Claire thought it might snap.

“If it’s too much, I can change,” she said, suddenly feeling foolish. “I know it’s just a reunion—”

“Don’t touch a thing,” Vincent said quietly.

His voice was lower than usual. It sent a strange, electric jolt straight down Claire’s spine.

“You look exactly as you should,” he added.

They left the townhouse at six-fifteen. Vincent didn’t drive his usual armored SUV. Instead, a sleek black sedan was waiting at the curb. He opened the door for her himself.

The drive to Blackwood Country Club took twenty minutes. Claire spent nineteen of them staring out the window, her heart hammering against her ribs.

When they pulled up to the grand, columned entrance of the country club, the valet rushed forward.

Vincent stepped out, buttoned his jacket, and walked around the car. He offered Claire his hand.

His palm was warm, his grip firm.

“Breathe, Claire,” he murmured as they walked up the stone steps.

“I am breathing,” she lied.

“You’re holding your breath. It’s a dead giveaway.”

They walked through the heavy mahogany doors and into the grand ballroom. The room was dripping with crystal chandeliers, loud laughter, and the clinking of champagne glasses.

Claire instantly spotted the seating chart on a large easel near the entrance.

Her name was still listed under Table 11.

But Vincent didn’t stop at the easel. He placed a hand lightly on the small of her back—a gesture so natural, so protective, it made Claire’s breath catch—and guided her straight through the crowd.

People turned as they passed.

Claire saw the exact moment the whispers started. She saw eyes drop to the red dress, then lift to the tall, striking man walking beside her.

They walked directly to Table 6.

It was positioned near the center of the room, right by the dance floor.

Tom was already seated. He was wearing a navy suit that looked slightly tight around the collar. Rebecca sat next to him, wearing a heavily sequined gold gown that screamed for attention.

They were laughing at something someone across the table had said.

Then, Tom looked up.

The smile fell off his face so fast it almost looked painful. His eyes locked onto Claire, widening in absolute shock.

Rebecca followed his gaze. Her mouth actually dropped open.

Vincent pulled out a chair. Not an empty one—he smoothly relocated a reserved place card, swapped it for another, and pulled the chair back for Claire.

“Good evening,” Vincent said to the table. His voice was smooth, polite, and completely terrifying.

Claire sat down, keeping her spine perfectly straight.

Vincent took the seat beside her.

Tom swallowed hard. He looked from Claire to Vincent, then back to Claire.

“Claire,” Tom said, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re… you look different.”

“Thank you, Tom,” she said simply.

Rebecca quickly recovered, forcing a bright, plastic smile. “Claire! We were so worried you wouldn’t show up. And they put you at Table 11, I don’t know why you’re sitting here—”

“There was a mistake with the arrangement,” Vincent interrupted. He didn’t raise his voice, but the entire table instantly went quiet. “Claire belongs here.”

Rebecca blinked, her smile faltering. “And you are?”

Vincent didn’t answer her. Instead, his dark eyes shifted past Tom, focusing on the older, gray-haired man sitting at the head of the table.

Henry Callahan.

The billionaire real estate developer. The man Vincent had been trying to corner for eighteen months.

Callahan was staring at Vincent with a mixture of shock and deep apprehension.

“Vincent Marino,” Callahan said slowly, leaning back in his chair. “What the hell are you doing at a high school reunion?”

“Accompanying Claire,” Vincent said smoothly.

He reached into his jacket pocket.

Claire expected him to pull out a business card.

Instead, Vincent pulled out a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. He placed it deliberately in the center of the white tablecloth, right in front of Tom.

The silver caught the light of the chandelier.

Tom looked at the watch.