The ceremony dissolved into its after-party with the smooth efficiency of palace staff trained for televised events. The dais was cleared, a string quartet in muted suits struck up something elegant but forgettable, and a line of dignitaries formed to offer handshakes, smiles, and carefully worded congratulations under the lights. Cameras tracked every movement like hunting hawks.
Lucas did what he had been trained to do since he arrived at Serathine's mansion: he smiled, shook hands, inclined his head just enough, and offered the kind of small, wry remarks that made people laugh and feel clever. But beneath the pleasant curve of his mouth, his jaw was beginning to ache. His shoulders held steady because Trevor's palm stayed at the small of his back, the only anchor he had left after hours of rehearsals, flashbulbs, and noise.
