I stepped out of the black chopper first, heels clicking against the stone composite, sunglasses locked in place, blazer sharp. This wasn't Northridge Manor with its suffocating ancestral portraits and judgmental aunts in pearls. This was open warfare wrapped in a charity tax write-off. Couples in matching designer resort wear milled around the central pavilion, sipping sparkling water and sizing each other up like racehorses in a paddock.
Dominic hopped down behind me, dark suit jacket hooked over one finger, wearing that slow, dangerous smirk that usually meant someone’s market share was about to get liquidated.
"Stop looking like you're about to foreclose on the whole peninsula," I muttered, elbowing his ribs as we walked toward check-in. "Smile like you're happy to raise money for or
