“My brother gave it to me.” I yanked my hand away. “It has nothing to do with our father.”
My bruises had finally faded, but a phantom ache circled my wrist at the reminder.
“Your brother is proud of the name and everything it represents. How does that not involve your father and the reputation he’s created?”
“Because Sante is different. He’s sweet.”
“Naïve.”
My lips thinned, unable to contradict him. “I can’t hate him for what our father has done,” I explained, my defenses lowering. Dropping my gaze, I suddenly felt self-conscious and turned toward the door. “We should probably go look for the photographer.”
Conner’s right hand reached around to press flat against my belly and pull me back flush against him. My gown was practically backless, allowing the scalding heat from his chest
