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Like tension excited her.

Trent set down his fork. “You defending hedge funds at my Christmas table?”

“I’m defending facts.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

The air pulled tight.

Then Isa’s voice cut in, smooth and bright in that practiced way I was starting to understand came from too much childhood spent surviving rooms like this.

“Daddy, Drew does not work for his father. And I’m pretty sure no one wants a securities-law debate over mashed potatoes.”

Trent looked at her.

For a second, I saw something like surprise.

Then irritation.

Then he smiled at me without warmth.

“Fair enough. We’ll save it for dessert.”

I smiled back.

“Looking forward to it.”

Isa kicked me lightly under the table.

I squeezed her knee.

The rest of dinner dragged.

Mrs. Calloway kept asking questions that sounded sweet until you listened too closely.

Where did I summer?

Was my father’s place in Miami the primary residence or just one of them?

Did I see myself staying in California long-term or would I eventually “come back to where the real money is?

Had Richard met Isa?

What did he think of her?

That one made Isa go perfectly still.

I answered carefully.

“My father thinks Isa is impressive.”

Mrs. Calloway practically glowed.

Isa looked down at her plate.

And me?