Rhys's POV
I had stopped trying to make her fit the shape of the woman I agreed to marry. I wasn't sure exactly when that had happened. Somewhere between the study and this black-car ride through the city, somewhere between the tea I'd made at two in the morning and this moment where I was watching her in the back seat, gloves in her lap, looking out at the lights like she was memorizing them, I had let go of the comparison entirely.
I wasn't sure if that made me perceptive or a fool. Tonight I would find out which.
The Hartwell Foundation gala was the first function we'd attended together since the wedding, and the room was going to be full of people who had opinions about my wife. Board members and their wives. Old family friends. Three journalists who called themselves correspondents
