My father’s eyebrows knitted in anger.

“Sweetheart?

Who on earth are you?” Rafael slid his arm around my waist, drawing me against his side.

“Good evening.” “I asked you a question, young man.

Who are you?” Bernard Ashby had closed his eyes and looked as though he wished to sink through the floor.

Rafael met my father’s eyes.

“I am Rafael Moreno.” My father took a few seconds to place the name, and when he finally connected the face to the multi-billion-dollar conglomerate, every drop of color left his face.

“And,” Rafael continued, coldly, “I am Noelle’s husband.” My mother let out a high, nervous laugh.