Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Way He Waits
She felt it before she saw him.
Not because the air shifted, or the room stilled.
Not even because she caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette.
She felt it in her body—a subtle change in breath. A tension behind her ribs. The way her skin suddenly remembered the weight of eyes that had once traced it like worship.
She was installing a new piece in the southeast corridor of the Palais when it happened. A woman in heels passed behind her too slowly. A cough echoed near the entry. And her hands—steady for hours—faltered just once on the edge of the canvas.
Nikolai was here.
She didn’t turn.
Didn’t look.
But her pulse climbed anyway, traitorous and measured.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she wasn’t.
And that was worse.
**
He didn
