That was only partly true. He recognized faces. He knew enough names to fake closeness. More importantly, he knew how to act like a man who never needed to prove he belonged. Most people, he had learned, accepted confidence as currency if it was dressed well enough.
Inside his tux jacket was the invitation—thick cream paper, silver embossed, the kind of card men kept because it made them feel selected. He had looked at it twice in the car just to touch it. The Crystal Ball. The kind of event a man like Gavin spent years trying to get into and even longer pretending not to care about afterward.
“Stay close,” he murmured to Chloe as they crossed the foyer. “Smile. Don’t drink too fast. If anyone asks what you do, tell them you’re in brand consulting.”
She blinked. “I’m your executive assistant.”
“Tonight you’re in brand consulting.”
She grinned. “Right. Sophisticated.”
“Act expensive,” Gavin said.
Her laugh echoed off the stone. He liked that too.
What Gavin did not know as he stepped into the ballroom was that the invitation in his pocket was not access.
It was bait.