The bruise on Claire’s cheek wasn’t what drew the room’s attention.
It was the expression in her eyes.
She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t ashamed.
She looked terrified.
Not of the hundreds of guests staring at her beneath the shining crystal chandeliers.
Not of the cameras recording every second of the charity gala.
Not even of the woman standing beside her fiancé with a satisfied smile.
Claire was staring at only one person.
Her father.
Richard Hale.
At sixty-three years old, Richard carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had survived wars most people never knew existed.
His tailored navy suit couldn’t hide the broad shoulders that decades of military service had forged.
His silver hair reflected the ballroom lights.
His face remained calm.
Too calm.
Claire knew that expression.
She had seen it only twice before.
The first time was when her mother died.
