Years of training, self-imposed, brutal, meticulous kept her face smooth, her posture elegant, her breathing measured. Only when she was certain her expression betrayed nothing did she lift two fingers slightly, beckoning her assistant closer.
When he leaned in, she did not turn her head. She did not raise her voice. Her lips barely moved as she hissed, low and sharp,
"What the hell is she doing here?"
Her chin tilted a fraction of an inch.
The assistant followed the direction of her gaze and stiffened.
Lyse.
She was unmistakable, standing out among the sea of black-clad mourners not because she was loud or dramatic, but because she carried herself as if she belonged. An ankle-length black dress skimmed her frame, simple and elegant, devoid of embellishment. Her hair was pinned back neatly, her face bare of excessive makeup, pale and composed.
At her side was Levi.
