Grayson didn’t pet him. He didn’t issue a command. He simply existed in that corner with the dog, an almost imperceptible aura of authority surrounding both of them.
It had been half an hour since they arrived. The clinking of cups, the soft tap of laptop keys, the muted television above the bar—all the hallmarks of a quiet afternoon. But then the illusion began to crack.
“Sir!”
The voice came sharp, cutting through the subdued hum of the lounge like a sudden gust of wind. Grayson looked up. A woman in a sharply tailored uniform approached, clipboard in hand. Her hair was perfectly arranged; her heels clicked against the marble with purposeful authority. She exuded confidence, control, and an expectation that the world would bend to her rules.
“I’m sorry, but animals are not permitted in this lounge.”
Vega’s ears flicked. Not in fear, not in confusion, but in assessment. The dog’s entire body was a study in calm readiness. Grayson, calm but firm, looked up at her.
