The afternoon light slanted across the tall windows, gilding the papers scattered across the minister's desk. The air was still warm from the August heat, and somewhere below the window the hum of the city rose and fell like distant surf.
Christopher Cross sat back in his chair, the faint gleam of his cufflinks catching the light as he turned a page. He had been reading the same line for several minutes. His eyes were fixed on the words, but his thoughts were elsewhere — replaying the waltz, the measured grace of her movements, the way her laughter had sounded precisely on cue.
Serena Maxwell.
He had meant to put her from his mind after the soirée. Yet here he was, remembering how she had looked up at him as if every gesture were deliberate, as if her charm were a blade sheathed in silk. There had been power in that performance. The kind he respected.
