Rafe stood at the edge of the marble hall, earpiece in, hands clasped behind his back. Across the room: polished diplomats, champagne flutes, strings playing something delicate and forgettable. A woman laughed too loud. A senator gestured too wide. A waiter tripped slightly near a railing. He tracked it all without moving a muscle.

“Security’s boring,” one of the junior guards whispered near him.

Rafe didn’t blink. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”

He scanned the ballroom again. Eyes narrowing slightly. Something felt…off. And Rafe Lorne always listened to that feeling.