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Celeste Turner. Vicious on a good day. Entitled on a bad one. And apparently feeling particularly fucking entitled tonight.

She's the daughter of one of my longtime business associates, which means I've been forced into her company more times than I care to count.

Celeste has also made it abundantly clear she'd like our acquaintance to become considerably more intimate.

I've declined.

Repeatedly.

Hell, I've turned down blatant offers to share my bed more times than I can remember this year alone.

I've never encouraged her.

Never flirted with her.

Never touched her.

Never given her a single fucking reason to think my sex life is any of her business.

But I've seen the way she looks at Layla tonight.

I saw it when we arrived.

Dismissive.

Disbelieving.

Jealous.

And now she's standing three feet from my Firecracker with an audience gathered around them.

My irritation turns instantly to something colder. I barely hear the congressman still speaking beside me.

“Excuse me.”

I don't wait for his response. I'm already moving.

Because whatever Celeste is saying, Layla's posture has changed.

Her shoulders are straight.

Chin high.

Those beautiful hazel eyes flashing.

She's holding her own.

Of course she fucking is.

My Firecracker doesn't need me to rescue her.

That's not why I'm crossing this ballroom.

Then a security guard approaches them and all my possessive instincts go on high alert.

What the fuck?

Celeste gestures toward Layla.