Grace's POV
Vincent's hand touched the small of her back as they walked into the dining room.
It was a small gesture but it meant something. It meant she wasn't a guest. It meant she belonged there. It meant the men in this room had to treat her like she mattered.
Grace could feel their eyes studying her as she took her seat. Not the polite curiosity from the first dinner. This was different. This was the way wolves looked at something that might be competition or might be prey.
She'd learned the difference.
The dinner was in a private room on the top floor of a restaurant in Manhattan that didn't appear in any guidebooks. The kind of place where you had to know people to get a reservation. The kind of place where nobody asked questions about who you were or what you discussed.
