10. Rafe #3
I wasn’t, but her chin lifted, telling me she’d drawn a line. I’d crossed enough lines in my life by trying to help too hard. The fact that I wanted to solve the problem didn’t make it mine to solve.
I inclined my head. “Then for tonight, we focus on the museum director.”
Something in her face eased. “For tonight,” she agreed.
Applause rose around us as a woman stepped onto the small stage and welcomed everyone to the annual benefit, her voice warm through the microphone. Guests began drifting toward their assigned tables.
Quinn turned toward the sound, shoulders squaring.
I watched the movement. The return of purpose. The way nerves didn’t vanish from her face so much as become fuel.
As the speech ended, the room loosened again, and we started to slowly make our way toward our target.
Chairs scraped back from tables, servers moved in careful paths between guests, and conversation rose immediately, as if everyone had been holding it in while the foundation director thanked donors, board members, sponsors, and one elderly Labrador named Buttons, who had apparently inspired an entire pilot program through charm and joint pain.
Quinn leaned closer as applause faded. “Buttons just got a standing ovation from three billionaires and a state senator. Max is going to be insufferable.”
At her side, Max remained composed.
“He appears unaffected,” I said.
“That’s how he gets you. Calm on the outside. Full diva ecosystem within.”
I looked down at the dog. “You hide it well.”
Max gave one dignified blink. Quinn’s mouth curved, but her attention had already moved across the ballroom. I followed her gaze and found Ms. Sorel moving near the far edge of the silent auction gallery.
“There,” Quinn said quietly.
“I see her. We can’t let her sneak away. Stay close,” I said. “I’ll make the introduction. Once she agrees to speak privately, I’ll bring you in.”
Quinn glanced toward Ms. Sorel’s circle. “You don’t want me with you from the start?”
“I don’t want to give her a reason to categorize this as an ambush before I’ve secured her attention.”
Quinn hesitated, and I could tell she wanted to argue. Still, after a second, she nodded. “Okay.”
I crossed the room.
It took longer than it should have. Two men stopped me to ask after my father.
A woman from an Olden Folk preservation council recognized my name and attempted to tell me, in the careful vague language of committee people, how meaningful it was that certain long-missing objects were “finding their way home.”
I thanked her, which was safer than explaining that objects did not find their way anywhere without lawyers, money, blackmail-adjacent social pressure, and, in this instance, a retired military dog.
By the time I reached Ms. Sorel’s circle, a trustee in a pale blue dinner jacket had positioned himself at her shoulder and was describing, in detail, a donor plaque dispute from 2018.
I waited for the smallest break in the conversation.
“Ms. Sorel,” I said when the trustee paused to drink.
Her eyes moved to me. Sharp, assessing, not unfriendly. “Mr. Virelli.”
“You know me?”
“I know of you.” Her smile was brief. “That tends to happen when a dragon’s legal team sends three letters.”
Several people around her turned toward me with renewed interest.
Not ideal.
“I’d hoped to discuss the matter privately,” I said.
“Mm. Right.” She turned slightly, but before she could step away, the trustee touched her elbow.
“Ms. Sorel, before you vanish, I need you to meet Colin. He’s been asking about the east wing restoration. You remember Colin.”
Another man moved in at once, eager and polished. “Ms. Sorel, a pleasure. Truly. The work you’ve done with the museum’s educational programming is remarkable.”
Her attention shifted, not entirely away from me, but enough. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
I could’ve forced the issue. I had status enough for it. Enough money. A legal claim strong enough to justify impatience. But one firm insistence from me and the story would become dragon heir pressures beloved museum patron at charity benefit.
So, I waited.
Colin had brought a wife. The wife had questions. The questions attracted a foundation board member. Within three minutes, I’d become part of the orbit rather than the conversation.
Ms. Sorel looked at me once over the rim of her champagne glass, and there was a trace of apology in her face. Or maybe it was calculation. Perhaps both.
“Mr. Virelli,” she said at last, when a guest on her other side began speaking to the trustee, “do send my assistant a note. Truly. I’m happy to have Elaine find time for us to discuss your concerns properly.”
“My concerns have already been sent to Elaine.”
“Yes, and she is very good. She’ll get you sorted.” Her attention shifted to someone approaching with an eager smile and a hand already extended. “Forgive me. I’ve been trying to speak to the lieutenant governor all evening.”
And then she was gone, drawn two steps away and immediately surrounded again.
I stood there a moment too long, my hand empty at my side, the failure clean and public enough to taste.
I turned back toward Quinn.
She was still where I’d left her. She’d been watching the exchange closely, reading the room from across it. Max sat beside her, plum tie centered, gaze moving between me and the crowd as if he too had assessed the mission and found the approach lacking.
Quinn’s expression changed when she saw my face.
Not pity. Good. I could not have endured pity.
Understanding, perhaps.
That was worse in a different way.
I made my way back through the room, every polite nod costing more than it should’ve.
The ballroom had felt briefly interesting through Quinn’s eyes: the photographs, the staff, the small human mechanics beneath all the ceremony.
Now the familiar weight of it returned. The people who had never needed to argue that they belonged because the room had been built around their arrival.
By the time I reached her, my mood had cooled into something hard and useless.
“Well?” she asked.
“She told me to message her assistant.”
Quinn glanced toward Ms. Sorel’s cluster. “Your legal team already messaged her assistant.”
“Yes.”
“That is impressively circular.”
“It is evasive. She’s not going to give me time tonight.”
Quinn’s gaze stayed on the crowd. “Not that way, no.”
I heard the qualifier and looked at her. “Quinn.”
She turned back to me, all innocence. Too much innocence.
“I can fly across the city in minutes,” I said quietly.
“I can track legal ownership through two centuries of incomplete records. I can place a claim in front of every person responsible for that sword, and still, none of it matters if a woman in an expensive gown decides the conversation is inconvenient.”
Quinn didn’t answer right away. Then she said, “It matters.”
I looked at her.
“It matters,” she repeated. “It just didn’t work yet.”
Max leaned against her leg.
Quinn looked down at him, then back at me, her mouth tipping into the smallest smile. “Will you trust me for ten minutes?”
“No.”
“I’m not going to lie to anyone or steal anything.”
“That shouldn’t need saying.”
“The way your face looks right now? It did.”
Despite myself, I exhaled. It was nearly a laugh. Not quite, but enough that her smile warmed. “I’ll come with you.”
Quinn turned back, and before I could step forward, she placed one hand lightly against my chest. The contact was brief. A simple pressure through my jacket and shirt, barely enough to stop me.
I felt it everywhere.
She didn’t seem to notice what she’d done to me, which was fortunate, because I had no immediate plan for surviving it with dignity.
“You can’t,” she said gently.
“I can.”
“Technically, yes. Socially, no.” Her hand remained there another second, warm and steady, then fell away. “Something’s off.”
“Other than Ms. Sorel avoiding me?”
“No one’s asking about Max.”
I glanced down. “Is that unusual?”
“Rafe, my life is mostly answering questions about this dog while trying to exist in public. At a charity event for service dogs, people should be lining up to ask his name.”
Max’s ears shifted.
“They keep looking,” she said. “Then they look at you.”
I understood immediately. “I’m discouraging them.”
“A little.”
“I haven’t even spoken to them.”
“You don’t have to.” Her mouth curved, but she stayed focused. “Let me take him near the photo display for a few minutes. Alone, but still where you can see us. Max becomes approachable, people come over, and maybe we find someone who knows the room better than we do.”
Quinn had read the room correctly. My presence opened certain doors, but it also made people straighten their backs and think before speaking. Max, standing beside me, looked less like a beloved retired working dog and more like part of an expensive security arrangement.
“Five minutes,” I said.
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“This is not a hostage negotiation.”
“Then don’t negotiate like it is one.”
Her smile brightened. “Eight.”
I exhaled. “Fine. Eight minutes.”
“Excellent.” Quinn adjusted Max’s leash, her fingers light and sure. “Max, we have a work assignment.”
Then she started forward.
I let her go.