Godfrey Whitmore crossed the hall with the confidence of a man who had never been refused.
He stopped before Catherine and offered a flawless bow: polished, aristocratic, practiced to perfection.
In the distance, Sebastian nudged Maximilian with his elbow.
"Look there. Gabriel's pride is trying to take what's yours again."
Maximilian didn't even turn.
He had known the moment his grandfather saw Catherine beside him that this would happen. Old men like Gabriel never missed an opportunity—they manufactured them.
And still, he wasn't worried. Not even a little.
Because he knew Catherine.
"Watch her," Maximilian said calmly.
—
"Good evening," Godfrey said smoothly. "Godfrey Whitmore."
His gaze swept over Catherine: not leering, not crude, but slow enough to be intentional. A measured appraisal. As if she were something to be evaluated… and claimed.
"I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he continued, already extending his hand. "Would you care to dance?"
