Chapter 819

Lucian's deep, velvety voice brushed against Rosalind's ear like silk.

"Stand firm, shoulders back. Keep your gaze locked on the target. Channel your strength through your arms—swift but controlled." His instruction carried the precision of a master archer teaching form. "Concentration is everything. Where your mind goes, the ball follows."

Rosalind's fingers tightened around the club. For a fleeting moment, Everett's face surfaced in her thoughts.

"You remind me of someone," she murmured.

Lucian stilled. "Who?"

She exhaled, shaking her head.

His dark eyes studied her. "An ex?"

A nod.

"Still in contact?"

Her lips curved without humor. "Three years of silence."

"And yet you're thinking of him now." His voice dropped. "Do you still care?"

Rosalind met his gaze. "I think I've got the hang of this. Thanks for the lesson."

She shut down the conversation like closing a book.

Lucian released her, stepping back. "Show me what you've learned."

As she adjusted her grip, that familiar prickle of awareness crept up her neck. She glanced up—Julian stood at the edge of the green, jaw clenched.

He'd been watching. Again.

First the jacket adjustment. Now this. Julian's knuckles whitened around his own club.

Rosalind turned away.

Reginald's voice broke the tension. "Your turn, Ms. Fairchild."

She flashed a quick smile. "Let's see if I can embarrass myself less this time."

Planting her feet, she visualized Lucian's guidance—posture, focus, follow-through. The club swung in a clean arc.

Thwack.

The ball dropped into the cup with satisfying finality.

Rosalind whirled, beaming. "Did you see that? We won!" Without thinking, she threw her arms around Lucian. His woodsy cologne enveloped her as his hands steadied her waist.

Reginald chuckled. "Well played. Lucian, your protégé is a natural."

Reality crashed back. Rosalind sprang away, cheeks flaming. "Sorry, I got carried away—"

Lucian's smile softened the sharp angles of his face. "You were brilliant."

Julian materialized beside them, voice dripping ice. "Color me impressed."

Rosalind tilted her chin. "Turns out I'm full of surprises."

Reginald clapped his hands. "Dinner's on me, as promised. The chef here does miracles with truffles."

Her pulse jumped. Whitmore Holdings isn't lost yet.

Lucian's fingers brushed her elbow. "Looks like you're stuck with me a while longer."

"Guess I'll survive," she teased.

A staff member approached. "Your suite is ready, Mr. Graves. Will Ms. Fairchild be joining you?"

Rosalind's breath hitched. "Wait—we're sharing a room?"

Lucian's thumb traced idle circles on her wrist. "Problem?"

The air between them crackled.

Somewhere behind them, Julian's glass shattered against a stone planter.