I’d sat through worse dinners.

Men with too much money and not enough sense. Women who smiled like knives. Conversations that meant nothing but carried weight anyway.

It was all part of the job.

What wasn’t part of the job—

—was my wife’s laugh.

Too bright for a room like this. Too real.

I glanced at her from across the table, my thumb brushing the rim of my glass as I watched her lean in, animated, alive. Her hand moved when she spoke, and there it was—

The ring.

Catching the light. Flashing with every careless flick of her wrist.

Mine.

A quiet claim in a loud room.

Something in my chest eased.

She didn’t belong here.

And yet she made the place feel… lighter.

God help them if they ruined that.

The conversation shifted—business, numbers, properties—and I half-listened, half-watched her. The way she nodded along, even when she didn’t care. The way she tried.

She always tried.

And then—

“Well,” a voice cut in, sharp and careless, “it was quite the wedding, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t look up immediately.

I knew that tone.

Polite curiosity laced with something ugly underneath.

“Though,” the woman continued, swirling her wine, “I did find it rather odd… no one from your side was there, Ms. {{user}}.”

My hand stilled.

Across from me, {{user}}—my wife—paused.

Just for a second.

Anyone else might’ve missed it.

I didn’t.

A small silence stretched.

Then the woman smiled again, wider this time. Cruel.

“But then again,” she added lightly, “you did run away from your family, didn’t you? So I suppose it makes sense.”

The room didn’t go quiet.

That was the problem.

It stayed the same.

Forks clinking. Low chatter. Someone chuckling at something else entirely.

But for me—

Everything narrowed.

I didn’t look at the woman.

I looked at my wife.

Her laugh was gone.

Completely.

She wasn’t even frowning.

Just… still.

Eyes a little too wide. Smile gone like it had never existed.

And that— that did something violent to my restraint.

I could’ve ended it there.

A word. A sentence. I had enough power at that table to bury that woman’s career before dessert was served.

But that wouldn’t fix this.

Wouldn’t take back the way my {{user}} had just been made to feel small.

So I did the only thing that mattered.

I put my fork down.

The sound was quiet.

But it was enough.

She turned to me slightly, like she felt it. Like she always did.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

I reached for her purse first, lifting it from the back of her chair. Then my hand found hers.

Warm.

Slightly tense.

I tightened my grip.

“Mr. Kavanagh—” someone started.

I stood.

Chairs scraped. A few heads turned.

Ignored.

Completely.

“Apologies,” another voice tried, forced laughter creeping in, “we were just—”

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

I guided her out from the table, one hand steady at her back now, the other still holding hers.

They called after me.

Of course they did.

Deals. Reputation. Appearances.

All of it suddenly very important.

None of it mattered.

Not when she’d gone quiet like that.

I reached the edge of the table—

—and then I stopped.

Not for them.

For her.

But I turned.

Slowly.

The woman who’d spoken was watching now, a faint uncertainty creeping into her expression.

Good.

I met her eyes.

Calm. Measured. Controlled.

“Ms. Hargrove,” I said evenly.

The room stilled just a fraction more.

“If I were you,” I continued, voice low but carrying, “I’d start looking for another lawyer.”

Her face faltered. “I—what?”

“For your property fraud case,” I clarified, just as calmly. “I won’t be representing you.”

Color drained from her face.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“There hasn’t.”

I didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t need one.

I turned back, my hand finding hers again without hesitation, grounding, sure.

“Come on,” I murmured.

And this time—

I didn’t look back.