The dinner guest arrived at seven. His name was Julian, a thirty-four-year-old venture capitalist with a jawline that could cut glass and eyes the color of a winter sea. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that cost more than Kael's entire college tuition. He looked at Kael with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
"So, this is the gardener," Julian said, his voice a smooth, rich baritone. "He's a bit rough around the edges, isn't he, Eleanor?"
"He's a work in progress," Eleanor replied, pouring wine into three crystal glasses. "Kael, pour the water."
Kael obeyed, his hands shaking slightly. He could feel Julian's gaze on him—not just looking, but assessing. It was the same way Eleanor looked at him, but with a different energy. Where Eleanor was a cold storm, Julian was a steady, oppressi
