Kalista noticed Thatcher’s first question at the hospital.

The grand luxury hotel ballroom was a symphony of crystal, gold, and suffocating pretense. Thousands of orchids cascaded from the vaulted ceilings, their sweet, heavy scent masking the quiet rot festering beneath the surface of the evening. It was the night of the wedding reception, a celebration of union that already felt more like a corporate merger.

Kalista stood near the towering ice sculpture, a vision of elegance in a custom silk gown that clung to her strong, athletic frame. At twenty-five, she possessed a beauty that was sharp and undeniable, her eyes missing nothing as they scanned the room. Beside her stood Thatcher, her husband of barely six hours. At thirty, he was the picture of American aristocratic perfection—tall, devastatingly handsome, with a jawline carved from marble and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"You're quiet tonight, darling," Thatcher murmured, his hand resting lightly, almost possessively, on the small of her back. "Smile. Aunt Coraline is staring, and you know how she talks."

"I'm perfectly fine, Thatcher," Kalista replied, her tone even, though her eyes tracked his father across the room. "Just observing."

Sterling, Thatcher’s father, held court by the bar. At fifty, he wore his tailored tuxedo like a suit of armor. He laughed loudly at a joke from a senator, but his eyes were hard, cruel stones. Beside him, almost shrinking into the shadows of her exquisite evening gown, was Lenora. Thatcher's mother was a delicate woman of fifty, her eyes perpetually cast downward, a ghost haunting her own life.

"Your father seems to be enjoying himself," Kalista noted, watching as Sterling suddenly grabbed Lenora’s arm, his fingers digging into the silk.

Thatcher waved a hand dismissively, his American accent smooth and polished. "Dad's just being Dad. He likes things perfect. Mother was supposed to remind the caterers about the caviar service, and she forgot. He’s just giving her a gentle reminder."