The diamond on Veronica Steele’s finger caught the late-day sun like it was designed for one purpose only: to distract, dominate, and silence doubt.
Five flawless carats. A stone so perfect it could convince the world that lies were fate.
Julian Cross walked beside her through Grant Park with the calm of a man who had survived boardrooms, funerals, and violence without ever flinching. He nodded when expected. Murmured agreement on cue. Let Veronica talk endlessly about seating charts, imported flowers, and wedding aesthetics—pretending his mind wasn’t a locked vault stuffed with ghosts.
“Lakeside ceremonies photograph better,” Veronica said, subtly turning her wrist so the ring blazed again. “And my mother insists on a live quartet. No DJ, Julian. Don’t fight her on this.”
Julian watched families drift past them—kids darting ahead, couples brushing shoulders, ordinary people living lives without bodyguards or second phones.