I was standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching Nathaniel disappear upstairs to change his shirt when it happened. One moment, the birthday celebration for Old Mrs. Margaret Ricardo was in full swing—glasses clinking, polite laughter, the orchestra playing softly in the background. The next, darkness descended as the lights dimmed dramatically.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as a massive projection appeared on the wall behind the stage.
It was a photograph. Of Nathaniel and me.
My blood ran cold as I stared at the image. It showed us in the garden behind his estate, his arm around my waist, my head tilted up toward him. The angle made it look intimate—almost as if we were about to kiss. I remembered that moment—we had been discussing his grandmother's condition, and he'd pulled me aside to avoid the gardener overhearing. But the photo... it told a completely different story.
"What is the meaning of this?" someone shouted.
