(Evelyn's POV)
The dinner shifted into its open social hour. The Southern Territory guest beside me had been good company all evening - a soft-spoken Omega who studied herbal medicine and had spent the last twenty minutes asking careful, intelligent questions about pack law and contract disputes.
"So if a smaller pack's healer guild signs an exclusivity clause with a larger distributor," she was saying, "they're essentially surrendering their independent sourcing rights entirely?"
"Depends on the wording." I turned my water glass in my fingers. "If the clause specifies 'primary supplier' rather than 'sole supplier,' there's room to negotiate. Most guild representatives don't catch the distinction until it's too late."
She leaned forward, genuinely interested. "That's exactly what happened to our guild three years ago-"
The sound of shattering glass cut through the room.
I looked toward the head table.
Celeste had knocked over her wine glass. Deep red liquid spread across the white tablecloth and ran down the edge of the table, soaking into the champagne-colored fabric of her skirt. She made a small sound - barely a gasp, perfectly pitched - and half the hall turned to look.
Lucian was on his feet before the glass stopped rolling.
He reached past a nearby server and pulled the cloth napkin from the man's arm. Then he crouched down in front of Celeste, one hand raised to shield her knees, the other moving upward along the hem of her skirt, blotting at the wine stain with quick, practiced strokes.
The whole motion took maybe four seconds. It looked like something he'd done before.
Vivienne was already calling for Martha to fetch a spare change of clothes. The entire head table reorganized itself around Celeste like iron filings around a magnet.
"It's nothing, I just slipped." Celeste's voice was soft and apologetic. She rested one hand lightly on Lucian's shoulder. "You don't have to stay down there. You'll get your trousers dirty."
Lucian didn't stand up.
He looked up at her from where he crouched.Anxiety. He was genuinely anxious for her.
Two years ago, at a summer barbecue, a grill rack had tipped over and caught my forearm. I had a burn mark for two weeks. Lucian had handed me a paper napkin and said, "Be more careful."
Now he was kneeling on the floor of a formal gala, blotting wine from another woman's skirt, in front of every senior member of Thornwood Pack.
The woman from the Southern Territory glanced at the head table, then back at me. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
I picked up my sparkling water and took a slow sip.
I excused myself a few minutes later, crossing the hall toward the restrooms. The corridor was quiet, the noise of the gala muffled behind the heavy doors.
I was three steps from the restroom entrance when the voices reached me through the gap in the door.