He should've set the phone down.
He should've walked away, taken a walk, done anything else — anything but look at the screen.
But his fingers were already moving.
The video opened with music — loud, polished, the kind you heard at expensive events designed to impress the world. The camera shook a little as someone recorded over the crowd.
Then it steadied.
And Zane's entire existence narrowed to a single frame.
Willow.
Not the Willow he remembered — tired, angry, hurting.
This Willow looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine cover.
Her hair was sleek, pinned back to bare her neck.
Her makeup was soft but sharp enough to wound.
Her dress — that gray, slitted to her hip, off-shoulder dress — hugged her like it had been made for her body alone.
She walked out of a black town car like she owned the pavement.
Camera flashes went off like a storm.
And right beside her — Victor Soren.
Hand resting at the small of her back.
Guiding her.
