Cellie's POV
The DeLeon mansion had been transformed.
Not in the small, intimate way of a family gathering but in the specific way of people who had never once done anything modestly in their lives: acrobatic performers in the garden, a sixteen-seat table of candles and centerpieces, men with earpieces stationed at intervals that told me Demetrio had spent considerable time on the security architecture of his father's birthday party. The ballroom was full of people who existed at the intersection of legitimate power and the kind that did not appear in any official record, and all of them were dressed as though someone had told them the cameras would be running.
Diana appeared at my elbow with two champagne flutes. "I just saw the Prince of Brunei," she said, under her breath, with the energy of someone reporting a natural disaster. "He is real. He is here. He looks exactly like his Wikipedia photo."
"Breathe," I said, taking the glass she offered.
