Page 53 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

Rune: I didn’t hire you. You were born into the Pride.

Dekel: And I’ve been earning my keep ever since. Friday’s going to be great. I’ve already briefed Yara.

Rune: You BRIEFED Yara?

Dekel: Somebody had to. Would you rather she walked in cold and improvised? Trust me. The briefing was a mercy. For everyone.

Friday arrived with the force of a sentencing.

The den had been transformed—not dramatically, because Astrid Sterling did not do dramatic. She did precise. Fresh flower arrangements in every room: white peonies and pale greenery, Scandinavian restraint as botanical art. The formal receiving room on the ground floor gleamed: marble polished, the chandelier at full glow, the Sterling crest above the fireplace catching the light. The ceremonial service—bone-white with a single silver stripe, reserved for occasions his mother deemed worthy of the family’s best—was set on the dining table upstairs for twelve.

Rune dressed in a navy suit. No tie. A concession toward approachability that Aspen had negotiated over a twenty-minute argument that ended with her throwing a tie at his head and declaring that neckwear was “a barrier to emotional authenticity.” He’d conceded because she was right and because arguing with Aspen past the fifteen-minute mark was a war of attrition he’d never won.

The Pride members began arriving at seven. Not the full contingent—this was the inner circle. Dekel, who arrived early and stationed himself in the kitchen with a beer and his phone, running what Rune suspected was a live-commentary channel to someone. Astrid, who emerged from the second floor in charcoal cashmere and pearl earrings and surveyed the ground floor with unhurried satisfaction—arrangements executed to specification. Two senior Pride members—Torsten and Maren, who served on the council with Yara and approached most social occasions with the reserved curiosity of academics at a field study.

And Yara.

Councilwoman Yara Vender-Lindgren arrived at seven-fifteen in structured black wool, her silver-streaked hair in its severe chignon, her Pride signet ring catching the chandelier light as she tapped it against the marble console in the foyer. She greeted Rune with a formal nod. Scanned the flowers. Noted the china. Drew the conclusions.

“The ceremonial service.” Her voice carried the cadence of observation dressed as statement. “Your mother only uses the ceremonial service for occasions she considers consequential.”

“It’s a dinner.”

“It is an introduction.” Yara’s blue eyes—sharp, heavy-browed, the kind that made witnesses in courtrooms reconsider their testimony—held his. “And I will observe it as such.”

She moved into the receiving room. Her signet ring tapped the doorframe as she passed. The sound was deliberate. Everything Yara did was deliberate.

Rune checked his watch. Seven twenty-two. Lark was due at seven-thirty.

His phone buzzed. Aspen, from the guest suite upstairs:

Aspen: I just saw her pull up. She’s in a GREEN DRESS. With GOLD EARRINGS. And her HAIR is down and CURLY. Rune. RUNE. She is STUNNING. Your lion is going to lose its MIND.

He pocketed the phone. Crossed to the front door. Opened it before she could ring the bell, because some instincts predated courtesy.

Lark stood on the limestone steps in June twilight.

She was⁠—

Aspen was right. His lion was going to lose its mind.

The dress was emerald-green, silk, falling to her calves with a neckline that traced her collarbones and left her shoulders bare. She’d let her hair go natural tonight—the curls, thick and voluminous, falling past her shoulders with a weight that shifted when she moved. Gold hoops at her ears. Heels that brought her closer to his jaw. A small gold clutch. And the scent—her candle signature layered under a perfume she didn’t usually wear, darker and richer, chosen for tonight.

She’d dressed for his court. Not in Scandinavian minimalism, not in borrowed aesthetic—in herself, elevated, deliberate. A woman who understood that the most powerful statement in any room was showing up as exactly who you are.

“Your Majesty.” The nickname landed with its usual precision, but her smile was softer than the delivery. She was nervous. He could see it in the grip on her clutch, the micro-adjustment of her posture, the half-second scan of the townhouse facade.

“You look—” He stopped. Three languages. Twelve years of boardroom negotiation. A vocabulary built for exact communication. None of it covered this.

She waited. Her eyebrow rose a millimeter.

“Relevant,” he finished.

Her laugh broke the twilight. “Relevant. I spent two hours getting ready and you’re telling me I look relevant.”

“It was intended as⁠—”

“An accidentally insulting version of ‘beautiful’? Because that tracks.” She stepped past him into the foyer. Her bare shoulder brushed his chest and the contact sent his hair stirring at the temples. She noticed. Her eyes flicked to the movement. The corner of her mouth curved.