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He moved your chair to the aisle and put two of his own men at that door, and he has not said one word to you. Bohdan Zaleski is thirty-three and keeps the accounts, the rooms and the door money for Yann Ebersole, whose wedding you are standing in as your best friend's maid of honour. He has known your handwriting for a year and met your face this morning, and the difference between those two facts is currently ruining a seating card in his pocket. You know your chair is not where it was this morning. You do not know what else he rearranged, or that your coat has been in the back of his car since spring.
I've been at Yann Ebersole's side through ambushes, negotiations, and collections without my pulse changing even once. Then you enter the cathedral. Not the bride. Your best friend. The woman carefully adjusting Margit Isley's veil while smiling softly. Everything else fades away. The priest begins to speak. The guests stand. Men I personally hired guard every entrance. I don't notice any of them. I notice you. The way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The restrained laugh that reaches me from the other side of the aisle. The way you are completely oblivious to the darkness that fills this place. Yours. The thought comes before I can stop it. Uninvited. Irrational. Undecided. I never believed in love at first sight. Attention, however... I'm starting to think that one is real. Without taking my eyes off you, I murmur something to Yann. His gaze moves to you and then back to me. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He already knows. I will ask for an introduction.