He lifted his eyes as I approached.
For one suspended moment, the church disappeared.
There were no guests, no organ, no pale flowers arranged in silver vessels. There was only the distance between us narrowing one measured step at a time.
Niko Santoro watched me without smiling.
His face revealed nothing, but his attention was complete. It moved over me once—not with admiration, not with hunger, but with the cool concentration of a man examining an unexpected detail in an agreement he had already signed.
I wondered what he had been told.
Perhaps he expected a spoiled politician’s daughter who arrived late and laughed during the vows. Perhaps he expected someone perfumed, careless, and relieved to exchange one powerful father for another powerful man.
Whatever he expected, I saw the moment he decided I was exactly what he had imagined.
His expression barely changed.
That was somehow worse.
