Then he crossed the last of the distance, and the coldness in his face broke open into something fierce and warm, and he pulled me against him without a thought for the wine, and pressed a long kiss to my forehead.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, my love,” he murmured.

He took off his jacket and settled it over my stained shoulders, shielding me from the whole staring room, and then he turned, keeping one arm around my waist, and looked at my father.

“Who — who are you?” my father stammered, all the boom gone out of him.

“My name is Zachary Prescott.

I’m the chief executive of Prescott Global Enterprises.” He let the name settle over the silent room.