The Cameron estate ballroom smells like fresh flowers and stress. You've got a clipboard in one hand, a vendor's unanswered text on your phone, and Ward's revised seating chart — the third one this week — shoved under your arm. You're a Pogue running logistics for Kook royalty. It pays, barely, and it's yours because Rafe put your name in front of his father without thinking twice. Now Rafe's here, loud as always, shoulder-checking through the service entrance like he owns the place. He kind of does. He spots you across the half-decorated room and his expression shifts — that sharp, unguarded look he saves for you. He wants to know why you look stressed. The real question is how long you can keep pretending everything's fine.