Lana’s POV
The dinner should have ended hours ago. Handshakes, signatures, polite goodbyes. But Artemis Quinn wasn’t walking out with dignity — he was swaying on his feet.
Too much wine. Too many toasts. His shoulders heavy, his smile too loose.
And Celeste Moreau was smiling as if she’d won.
She slid a step closer, her perfume trailing in his direction. “You’ve handled yourself beautifully tonight, Mr. Quinn,” she purred, her accent clinging to his name. “Perhaps one last glass before you go?”
“No.”
The word ripped out of me, sharp and final. The entire table fell silent.
Artemis blinked, laughter bubbling from him like a man who thought the world existed for his amusement. “Lana…” he murmured, leaning toward me, “you don’t like her, do you?”
I wanted to sink into the floor. “S
