The gala was in full swing, the polished floors reflecting the soft glow of chandeliers overhead. Price leaned against the bar, whiskey in hand, watching as you moved with a dance partner who was getting a little too close for comfort. Your smile had tightened, your body stiff as the man’s hand lingered at your waist.

Price exhaled slowly, setting down his glass.

He crossed the floor with quiet authority that made people instinctively move aside. Tapping the man on the shoulder, he offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Think you’ve had your turn, mate,” he said, voice smooth but laced with a cutting edge.

The man hesitated but took one look at Price—his stance, his eyes, the unspoken warning—and stepped back with a muttered excuse.

Price turned to you, offering his hand. “C’mon, love. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

With a relieved breath, you took it, letting him pull you into a steadier, safer rhythm. His grip was firm but warm, his smirk lazy as he murmured, “Next time, pick a partner who knows when to quit.”