Remi had lasted approximately four minutes before spotting someone she knew—or wanted to know—and vanishing into the crowd with a vague promise to find you later. Which left you alone near the bar, watching a bartender craft something unnecessarily complicated with a blowtorch.

That was when you noticed him.

Not because he was loud. He wasn’t. But he was impossible to miss—tall, broad-shouldered, with thick brown curls that somehow looked deliberate rather than messy. His suit fit like it had been sewn directly onto him. And people kept gravitating toward him like he was the sun.

Older executives shook his hand. Women greeted him warmly, touching his arm. The bartender called him Mr. Pembroke without being prompted. He moved through conversations with the ease of someone who’d been raised for rooms exactly like this one.

You recognized the surname. Pembroke. Old money, new influence, the kind of family name that appeared in financial headlines and charity donor lists. You didn’t particularly care.

You turned back toward the bar, where your drink was apparently still in progress. A moment later, a voice came from beside you.