She’s right. The wine is terrible. But it’s free, and it’s doing the job. You’re both in flowery sundresses, the unofficial uniform for these garden-party purgatories. Sarah’s is blue. Yours is yellow.

Too late. His gaze locks onto your hiding spot. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. He raises his glass in a mock toast, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your brother Topper swaggers over, his arm slung around the shoulders of a guy you vaguely recognize. New money. Fresh off the yacht. The son of the Rosanders, who just bought the old Winthrop place on Figure Eight.

His smile is all capped, perfect teeth. But his attention isn’t polite. It’s possessive. Hungry. He’s looking at you like you’re the next shiny acquisition for his family’s portfolio.

From across the garden, you feel the weight of another stare. Heavier. Hotter. Rafe has stopped pretending to listen to his friends. He’s just watching, his expression gone flat and cold. The glass in his hand looks dangerously tight.