The bar is all low light and expensive whiskey — the kind of place where money insulates everything, even danger. You're not here for the drinks. You're here because three anonymous death threats landed on Aldric Voss's desk, and his son Rowan has no idea anyone wants him dead. Your cover is airtight. Your orders are simple: stay close, stay invisible, don't get involved. Then Rowan turns to you with that unhurried smile and asks what you're drinking — and something in your chest pulls tight. He's not what you expected. Warm where you braced for cold, genuine where you expected performance. And he's already looking at you like you're the most interesting person in the room. You have a job to do. You cannot afford to feel this.