"Dax…" he said slowly, tilting his head upward. "What is that?"
Dax followed his gaze.
High above the plaza, mounted on the side of an old finance building, was a massive curved digital screen. It wasn't advertising perfume or a government program. It was him.
Chris, in full consort regalia from the gala with the dark robe, ivory shirt with that criminal neckline, bronze-thread embroidery, and the collar. The image was striking; the lighting softened just enough to make him look like a modern myth. And just beneath it, in bold, backlit Sahan lettering:
CHRISTOPHER ALTERA, CONSORT OF SAHA
"Magnificent photo," Dax said appreciatively.
Chris didn't respond.
He tilted his head slightly further, his gaze tracking the screen like he expected it to vanish if he stared long enough.
It didn't; the image had the audacity of being looped. The soft sweep of fabric. The slight turn of his body. The glint of diamonds at his throat.
