“Are you proposing we settle this with a fight?” Desmond was unshaken by the veiled threat. “Rushing to her defense like a knight in shining armor? Yet it strikes me as profoundly ironic. You’re prepared to clash over your lover, while I’m standing here advocating for your wife. Doesn’t that inversion feel utterly bizarre?”
“It’s not your place to advocate for anyone,” Vance retorted sharply, his usual poise fracturing under the strain. “Regardless of the accuracy of your characterizations, neither of them has anything to do with you. But for your egregious rudeness, I wouldn’t mind giving you a piece of my mind.”
Vance had been driven to the brink of his endurance, otherwise, this paragon of calm restraint would never have uttered such overtly confrontational words.
Desmond was undeterred by the provocation. “Are you so sure you can handle me?”
“Try me,” Vance replied icily.
Catherine tugged at his sleeve. “Forget it, Vance. Why bother with a dancer? We can’t go down to his level.”
Rebecca could barely suppress a laugh at Catherine’s inflated self–importance.
Just then, a ripple of excitement stirred through the assembled guests. Joyce and her husband, Sean Mueller, had made their entrance, accompanied by a poised young woman who could only be Tracy Mueller.
“They’re here,” Catherine whispered, rising to her feet with eager anticipation. “And it seems they’re heading our way.”
In a gesture of collective courtesy, the group stood as one, including Rebecca and Desmond.
Joyce smiled from a distance. “You look stunning today. I could hardly recognize you.”
Catherine beamed with excitement, leaning toward Vance. “Is Mrs. Mueller complimenting me?”
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