Adrian Hawthorne did not look like a man who was about to be abandoned. He stood at the center of the candlelit terrace the night before the wedding, one hand resting lightly against the back of Seraphina's chair, his posture relaxed and commanding at the same time. The river beyond the estate reflected strings of golden lights, and laughter drifted easily between tables set with crystal and white roses.
If anyone had studied his face closely, they would have seen nothing but devotion.
Seraphina watched him from across the long table and felt a chill she did not show. He was magnificent at this.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Adrian said, rising smoothly to his feet with a glass of champagne in his hand, "thank you for honoring us tonight."
Conversations quieted instantly. He did not raise his voice, yet every guest leaned in as if compelled.
