Oliver Macmillan tapped his fingers lightly on the table, scanning the wine list. "Four bottles of Royal Salute."

"Right away, sir." Jenna Roland gave a slight bow, the hem of her dress swaying gracefully as she turned.

Oliver slung an arm around Tristan Ashcroft's shoulder, a playful glint in his eyes. "Your hiring standards have improved."

Tristan swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Meaning?"

Brian Durrant whistled. "He's saying you finally hired someone decent. Unlike those last few disasters who couldn't even sell water in a desert."

"Then why not order Romanée-Conti?" Tristan raised an eyebrow.

Oliver sighed. "The old man's been auditing my accounts. Allowance cut in half." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Heard Tony Lombardi dropped fifty grand here last night?"

Julian Richter snapped his lighter shut. "That gangster?"

Tristan smirked. "Jenna sweet-talked him into calling her 'little sister' and made him open two bottles of Romanée-Conti." He tapped his temple. "That girl's got skills."

Oliver let out an appreciative whistle. "With that face and that body in that uniform..."

"Don't even think about it." Tristan's tone turned serious. "She's under Ethan Roscente's protection."

The room went dead silent.

Brian nearly dropped his glass. "Ethan Roscente? The 'Grim Reaper' of HM Group?"

Oliver swallowed hard. "The same guy who bankrupted a rival during the financial summit?"

Tristan tilted his phone, displaying a stark black-and-white message from this morning: Jenna is mine.

Julian suddenly chuckled. "Interesting. Since when does the second son of the Roscente family go for this type?"

Outside, neon lights flickered as Jenna carried a tray of drinks down the hallway. The crystal chandelier cast shimmering reflections on her collarbone, like a gilded bird in an ornate cage.