The flashbulbs erupted like a strobe light storm the moment the limousine doors opened. The Vance Conservatory, a cathedral of glass and steel rising into the night sky, was besieged by the press. They were hungry for a glimpse of the “Ice King” emerging from his year of silence.
Sophie Laurent hesitated in the backseat, her hand clutching the silk of her emerald gown. “I can’t do this, William. I’m just the nanny.”
William reached out, his hand steady and warm against hers. “Tonight, you are the reason I am standing here,” he said softly. “Trust me.”
He guided her out of the car. The crowd gasped. Sophie looked radiant in the vintage gown, a stark contrast to the grief that had shrouded the Croft name for so long. William placed a protective hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the gauntlet of shouting reporters. He didn’t look like a man mourning a ghost; he looked like a man waking up. For the first time in months, he didn’t shield his face. He looked proud.