Aiden Knight's POV
Ryan Doyle backs away from me like I'm a plague carrier. His expensive Italian leather shoes slide on the marble as he stumbles, nearly falling into the arms of his own security guards.
"Sir?" The lead guard reaches out to steady his employer. "What's wrong?"
Ryan doesn't answer. He's staring at me with the kind of raw terror usually reserved for natural disasters or terminal diagnoses. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the ballroom's perfect climate control.
"You're supposed to be dead," he whispers again.
I stand slowly, brushing a final piece of glass from my sleeve. The movement makes Ryan flinch like I've drawn a weapon.
"Disappointing, I know."
The crowd watches our exchange with growing confusion. Victoria Roth looks between us, trying to understand why the powerful Ryan Doyle appears ready to flee from a man half his size.
"Mr. Doyle," she ventures carefully, "do you know this person?"
