Chapter 8

The night air was cool against Elena's face as she stepped out of the palace and into the drizzle that had begun to fall. The courtyard was empty except for a single black car idling under a streetlamp, its driver holding an umbrella. Marcus walked with her to the car, opened the door himself, and gestured for her to get in.

"Victoria and I will follow in our own car," he said. "But this one will take you home. There's a change of clothes in the back seat — nothing fancy, just something dry." He paused, and his voice softened. "Your grandfather would be proud of you tonight. I hope you know that."

Elena looked at him, standing there in his charcoal jacket and loosened tie, the rain beginning to silver his hair. She saw not the imposing figure who had thrown Julian across the floor, but the old soldier who had knelt in front of the crowd to shield her. She stepped forward and embraced him, a brief, fierce hug that caught him by surprise.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

Marcus patted her shoulder, his voice rough. "Go home. Rest. The rest of the world can wait until tomorrow."

She climbed into the back seat, and the driver closed the door. The car pulled away, its headlights cutting through the rain, and Elena leaned her head against the window, the letter and bracelet safe in her pocket. The city slid past in smears of gold and red. She thought of her grandfather's signature on the yellowed paper, and of Marcus's steady hand writing his name in the guestbook at the start of the evening.

She had come to the gala as a charity case. She was leaving as an heiress — not to money, but to something more valuable. A place. A memory. A seat at a table that had been waiting for her all along.