Lucas sipped his whiskey in silence, his gaze drifting across the lavish reception like a man both inside and above the chaos. Velvet laughter, gilded gowns, and the clink of crystal spun around him like a carousel of wealth and shadows. But his eyes remained fixed on one thing.
Her.
The bride.
Belle.
Or rather—Evelyne, as the announcer had so elegantly declared.
But no name could disguise what she truly was.
A vision.
She stood across the room like some fragile masterpiece trapped behind glass, lost in the center of all the luxury, drowning beneath layers of silk and lace and expectation. Lucas watched the way her shoulders tensed beneath the delicate veil, how her fingers trembled even as they held a flute of champagne. She looked like she didn’t belong. Not here. Not beside Ashto
