The Cross family box was half shadow, half gold. Candles burned low in crystal sconces, their light pooling against the velvet walls and casting the illusion that every movement shimmered through a haze of warmth and secrecy. From this height, the great audience below resembled a restless sea before a storm—silks rippling like waves, jewels catching the light and flashing briefly before disappearing again. The soft rustle of programs, the polite laughter, the tuning of strings—all of it swelled into an elegant kind of chaos, a music of expectation before the true music began.
Serena sat at the forward edge of the box, her posture composed, her hands folded loosely in her lap. The stage stretched before her in a perfect frame, every bow and motion of the orchestra visible, yet her awareness circled constantly toward the presence behind her—the faint stir of fabric, the steady rhythm of a man who stood at ease in command.
