The man holding her looked down.
And Catherine's mind went utterly blank.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the feel of his arm firm around her waist, the warmth radiating through fabric and bone, the steady strength anchoring her where she had nearly fallen. The music, the chatter, the glittering hall... all of it faded into a distant hum.
She had known.
After Maximilian. After Bernice. After Sebastian.
Somewhere deep inside, she had known he would be here too.
But knowing and seeing were different things entirely.
He was young.
Too young.
The man she had met in her past life had been thirty-seven when she was eighteen—a man already carved by war, duty, and a life lived long before her. Back then, his face was sharpened iron, his gaze cold and assessing, his voice deep, dismissive, and economical. He was a king who spoke little and commanded much.
This man…
This man, looking at her was warm.
Young. Handsome. Unburdened.
