The wine hit my dress at exactly 8:42 p.m. One second, I was standing beneath the towering crystal chandeliers of the Whitmore Hotel ballroom, smiling politely while my husband raised a glass to “loyalty, legacy, and American opportunity.”

The wall of sound hit me immediately: clinking crystal, explosive bursts of laughter, the brass section of the orchestra swelling into a triumphant rendition of a classic Broadway overture.

Grant was standing near the edge of the dais, surrounded by a tight cluster of congressional aides and state representatives. He held a highball glass of scotch, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned just enough to project an image of casual, godlike dominance.

When he saw me enter, his eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter. The smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes—it never did when he was calculating margins.

He excused himself smoothly from the politicians, took two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray, and glided across the parquet floor toward me.

“You took your time, Victoria,” Grant said, his baritone voice pitched low enough to stay beneath the chatter of the nearby tables. He handed me a glass, his fingers brushing mine. His grip was tight, an iron vice disguised as an affectionate touch. “Did you manage to clean the dress?”

“Red wine doesn't come out of raw silk, Grant,” I replied coolly, meeting his gaze without blinking. “It’s ruined. Just like the photo shoot.”

He leaned in closer, pretending to kiss my cheek while whispering directly into my ear. The smell of expensive bourbon and clove-scented pomade washed over me.

“Where is Miles?” he murmured, his tone dropping the velvet polish completely.

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, Victoria. Not tonight. Not in front of the entire eastern seaboard’s political infrastructure.” He pulled back slightly, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back, his thumb pressing with deliberate force into my spine. “The surveillance feeds in the service hall went dark for forty seconds. You were back there with the boy who stole proprietary financial records from my terminal.”

I took a deliberate sip of the champagne, letting him feel the complete absence of a tremor in my frame.

“I was back there with a clumsy catering hire whose name I didn't bother to learn,” I said, turning my head to look him straight in the eyes. “He apologized, handed me a wet towel that did nothing, and ran down the stairs when he heard your security gorillas stomping through the service hall. If you’re having panic attacks about your disgruntled junior staff, Grant, perhaps you should manage your human resources department better.”

Grant’s jaw worked silently. For a moment, I saw the fury crack through his veneer—the raw, volatile anger of a narcissist who realizes he cannot fully read the board.

“You’ve been asking questions about the Tri-County bids,” Grant said, his smile returning as Senator Blake began walking toward our table. “Your personal IP pinged the offshore escrow routing codes yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m the Chief Financial Officer of Caldwell Dynamics,” I whispered back, maintaining my radiant hostess smile as the senator drew near. “Reviewing escrow balances before we sign federal compliance covenants isn’t treason, Grant. It’s my fiduciary duty.”

“Your duty is to stand beside me, smile for the cameras, and let the executive committee handle the mechanics,” he hissed through his teeth.

“Victoria! Grant!” Senator Blake boomed, extending a manicured hand. “An incredible evening! Truly magnificent. The governor was just telling me that this infrastructure rollout is going to transform the entire southern corridor.”

“It’s an honor to serve the public trust, Senator,” Grant said instantly, his voice transforming back into warm, rich molasses as he shook the older man’s hand. “Victoria and I believe that private enterprise and civic duty are two sides of the same coin.”

“Hear, hear!” Blake laughed, lifting his glass. “And Victoria, that dress! Only you could make a wine spill look like an avant-garde fashion statement.”

“Accidents happen, Senator,” I said, tilting my head toward Grant. “The trick is knowing when an accident is just carelessness... and when it’s an intentional mess designed to distract everyone from what’s happening beneath the table.”