Page 72 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

Quinn leaned closer as applause faded. “Buttons just got a standing ovation from three billionaires and a state senator. Max is going to be insufferable.”

At her side, Max remained composed.

“He appears unaffected,” I said.

“That’s how he gets you. Calm on the outside. Full diva ecosystem within.”

I looked down at the dog. “You hide it well.”

Max gave one dignified blink. Quinn’s mouth curved, but her attention had already moved across the ballroom. I followed her gaze and found Ms. Sorel moving near the far edge of the silent auction gallery.

“There,” Quinn said quietly.

“I see her. We can’t let her sneak away. Stay close,” I said. “I’ll make the introduction. Once she agrees to speak privately, I’ll bring you in.”

Quinn glanced toward Ms. Sorel’s circle. “You don’t want me with you from the start?”

“I don’t want to give her a reason to categorize this as an ambush before I’ve secured her attention.”

Quinn hesitated, and I could tell she wanted to argue. Still, after a second, she nodded. “Okay.”

I crossed the room.

It took longer than it should have. Two men stopped me to ask after my father. A woman from an Olden Folk preservation council recognized my name and attempted to tell me, in the careful vague language of committee people, how meaningful it was that certain long-missing objects were “finding their way home.”

I thanked her, which was safer than explaining that objects did not find their way anywhere without lawyers, money, blackmail-adjacent social pressure, and, in this instance, a retired military dog.

By the time I reached Ms. Sorel’s circle, a trustee in a pale blue dinner jacket had positioned himself at her shoulder and was describing, in detail, a donor plaque dispute from 2018.

I waited for the smallest break in the conversation.

“Ms. Sorel,” I said when the trustee paused to drink.

Her eyes moved to me. Sharp, assessing, not unfriendly. “Mr. Virelli.”

“You know me?”

“I know of you.” Her smile was brief. “That tends to happen when a dragon’s legal team sends three letters.”

Several people around her turned toward me with renewed interest.

Not ideal.

“I’d hoped to discuss the matter privately,” I said.

“Mm. Right.” She turned slightly, but before she could step away, the trustee touched her elbow.

“Ms. Sorel, before you vanish, I need you to meet Colin. He’s been asking about the east wing restoration. You remember Colin.”

Another man moved in at once, eager and polished. “Ms. Sorel, a pleasure. Truly. The work you’ve done with the museum’s educational programming is remarkable.”

Her attention shifted, not entirely away from me, but enough. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

I could’ve forced the issue. I had status enough for it. Enough money. A legal claim strong enough to justify impatience. But one firm insistence from me and the story would become dragon heir pressures beloved museum patron at charity benefit.

So, I waited.

Colin had brought a wife. The wife had questions. The questions attracted a foundation board member. Within three minutes, I’d become part of the orbit rather than the conversation.