Aria’s POV
Romanov set the note down beside the photograph, both of them side by side on his desk like evidence in a trial only he understood the stakes of.
“You recognize him,” he said, watching my face rather than the picture.
“From my father’s birthday two years ago.” I forced the memory into focus, sharpening details I hadn’t thought about in months. “He was introduced to me briefly. My father shook his hand as the man mattered more than anyone else in the room.”
“Did you catch a name?”
“No. My father never introduced business associates to me properly. I was decoration at those events, not a participant.” The old bitterness surfaced more easily than I expected, worn smooth from years of practice.
“But I remember him standing near you. Or near where you should have been, if you’d
