Across the banquet hall, Chris May had been idly swirling a glass of red wine when his eyes drifted toward the commotion. He studied Issac Monroe for a moment—calmly, curiously—like an observer evaluating a peculiar creature. Then, with leisurely confidence, he rose and walked toward them.
Each step landed unhurriedly, but carried an invisible sense of superiority, the kind that naturally made people move aside.
“So,” he drawled, amusement lacing his tone, “is this the entertainment for the night? You invited me here just to watch a family drama?”
His words made Thomas Pierce break into cold sweat. He bowed repeatedly, voice trembling with apology.
“Mr. May, our deepest apologies. We… we did not expect Nat to bring an irrelevant person here.”
Chris waved a hand generously, though the
