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Grant arrived at six-forty in a black tuxedo, wearing the expression of a man stepping into his own portrait. People turned toward him automatically. He had that gift—presence, gravity, the easy authority of someone used to rooms rearranging around him.
When he saw me, he smiled.
It was handsome.
It was practiced.
It was nothing like the smile he had given Elise at the airport.
“Vanessa,” he said, taking my hands. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you ready?”
“For your surprise?”
A faint flicker crossed his face.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been looking forward to it.”
He kissed my forehead.
To anyone watching, it was tender.
To me, it felt like being marked for sacrifice.
Then Elise entered.
The room did not stop.
But Grant’s attention did.
Only for a fraction of a second.
Enough.
She wore ivory. Of course she did. An ivory gown, champagne wrap, dark hair swept over one shoulder, sapphire earrings glittering at her ears.
Sapphires.
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