The reunion was being held in a ballroom at a historic downtown hotel that had hosted too many weddings and political fundraisers to care about one more beautiful scandal. Valets took the car. Doormen opened the entrance. Through the revolving doors, Carissa could already see clusters of people under chandeliers, drinks lifting and lowering in practiced circles of recognition.
And there, near the registration table, stood Damen.
With Nikki on his arm.
She wore emerald green.
Of course she did.
It was close enough to bridal without being white, dramatic enough to signal victory, soft enough to claim innocence later. She had curled her blonde hair into loose waves and painted her mouth a glossy pink that made her look younger than thirty, which was likely the point. She was smiling up at Damen with the shiny, eager face of a woman who believed she had finally been chosen in public.
Carissa felt Jackson’s hand settle lightly at the small of her back.
“Ready?” he asked.
She looked straight ahead.
“I’ve never been more ready for anything.”
They entered together.
It took less than ten seconds.