My father and I reached the altar.
Arthur placed my hand into Niko’s.
Niko’s fingers closed around mine. His palm was warm, his grip firm without being possessive. He did not squeeze or pull me closer. He simply held my hand as though acknowledging receipt of something entrusted to him.
My father remained beside us for one second too long.
“Niko,” he said quietly.
Niko looked at him.
Something passed between them.
It was not affection, gratitude, or triumph. It was the silent recognition of two men standing on opposite sides of a secret.
“I gave you my word,” Niko said.
His voice was lower than I had expected. Calm. Controlled.
My father nodded.
Then he left me there.
The priest began speaking.
I heard fragments.
Commitment.
Honor.
Duty.
Words that should have belonged to a marriage entered freely sounded strange inside a ceremony arranged through sealed envelopes and trembling hands.
