"Michael," she nodded to her son before turning to me. "Aria. I'm surprised to see you here."

"I was invited," I replied evenly. "As was our company."

Her lips thinned at the word "our," her gaze flicking between Michael and me.

"Where are my grandsons?" she asked, changing tactics.

"With Father at the dessert table," Michael answered. "Mother, may I have a word with you? In private?"

Elizabeth's perfectly penciled eyebrows rose a fraction. "Of course, dear."

As they stepped away, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Eight years had done nothing to diminish Elizabeth Walton's ability to make a room feel ten degrees colder...