Then a hush passed through the room near the front entrance.
One more important guest had arrived.
Anthony turned instinctively.
A tall man in black entered the ballroom with the kind of quiet impact that made rooms rearrange themselves around him without permission.
Lucian Calloway.
He wore a black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt and no visible strain, no visible rush, no visible emotion beyond his usual calm control. His dark hair was brushed back, his jaw clean and sharp enough to cut glass, and his gray eyes moved once across the room before settling—briefly, privately—on Allison.
Only for a second.
Only long enough to tell her he had seen her.
Then he looked away.
Professional.
Distant.
Untouchable.
Which somehow made it worse.
Anthony's stomach dropped.
Recognition arrived too late and all at once.
Calloway.
Not Caldwell.
Calloway.
The same man from yesterday.
The same stranger from the boutique.
