Page 44 of Royal Bargain

Her dress is a seafoam green piece that shimmers with every step like moonlight on the ocean. It hugs her curves just enough to make my mouth go dry, before cascading into a soft, flowing skirt that brushes the tops of her matching heels. A high slit along one thigh reveals just a glimpse of pale skin with each step,and I catch myself gripping the edge of the kitchen counter a little too hard.

Her hair’s all done up in soft waves, tucked behind one ear just so. There’s a little shine to it—glossy, like she stepped out of a black-and-white movie. A simple pearl necklace sits at her collarbone, and her gloves go all the way to her elbows like she’s on her way to the Oscars. She looks untouchable.

But then she looks at me.

And that wrecks me.

There’s a steadiness in her gaze—like she knows who she is—but it’s not all cool and collected. There’s a flicker of nerves too, like she’s wondering what I’ll say. Like maybe she still cares what I think.

“Jesus,” I mutter, and a stupid grin tugs at my mouth. “You trying to kill me before we even get to the damn gala?”

She lifts one brow, smirking a little. “Is it too much?”

“No,” I say, stepping in and taking her hand—glove and all. “It’s not enough. I should’ve been warned.”

Inside, the place is as over-the-top as expected. Chandeliers everywhere, champagne floating around on trays, and a hundred rich people talking like their voices matter more than the music.

Ana’s swept away almost immediately. Miranda pulls her in, and she leans in to press a quick kiss to my cheek—fast, warm, gone too soon. Then she vanishes into the sea of pearls and red lips and expensive perfume.

I watch her go. That seafoam green dress of hers moves like water, and for a second, I forget where I’m standing. Just staring, like some idiot who’s never seen her before.

Then Senator Burns claps a hand on my back and launches into motion. “Come on,” he says cheerfully. “Time to work the room.”

We start making rounds, and I’m trying to follow along, but mostly I’m just watching him.

With every handshake, every smile, Burns changes—just a little, but noticeably. Like a chameleon shifting shades to match whatever foliage he’s standing in. With one guest, he’s loud and booming, clapping backs and throwing out jokes like confetti. With another, he softens his voice, nods thoughtfully, listens like the world might hinge on every word this person says.

And none of it feels fake. That’s what’s wild. It’s not like he’s performing—at least, not in a way that makes you recoil. It’s more like he just… adapts. Like he knows how to make people feel important. Like he knows how to become whatever they need him to be in that exact moment.

And I’m kinda in awe of it.

Because I’ve never been good at that. I’ve always been too much or not enough. Too loud. Too blunt. Too distracted. I say the wrong thing, I forget the right one, I overshare or shut down entirely.

But Burns? He moves through this crowd like it’s a dance he’s done a thousand times. No missteps. No faltering. Just seamless, effortless presence.

I find myself wanting to know how. How does he read people so quickly? How does he adjust without losing himself in the process?

He glances over his shoulder at me during a lull and smiles. “You getting the hang of this yet?”

“Still learning,” I admit.

Burns winks. “You’re a quick study. You’ve got good instincts.”

I nod, but I’m still watching him—this man who can change his tempo without losing the rhythm. I don’t fully understand it, but I can’t stop watching. He makes people feel like they matter. Like they’re seen.

And God, I wish I was that good at making people feel seen.

Burns moves to the next circle of donors, easing into their conversation like he was born into it. I hang back just enough to avoid stepping on toes, but close enough to be introduced if needed. Honestly, I doubt they’d notice me even if I did cannonball into the middle of the champagne fountain. Their eyes are glued to the senator.

Near the refreshment table, two men in tuxes lean in close, voices pitched low beneath the music. One of them sips his drink like it’s gossip-flavored.

“—hearing the charges might not stick,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Volkov’s got friends in all the right shadows.”

The other hums. “Word is, his lawyers are gearing up for a clean sweep. If he walks…” He whistles softly. “Back to business as usual.”

My spine goes rigid.

I pivot just enough to catch more, pretending to glance at a passing tray of hors d'oeuvres.