The glass doors of The Ivory Thread slid open, cutting off the low, relentless hum of the city outside. Inside, the bridal boutique smelled of white lilies, steamed silk, and expensive champagne. It was a sterile, brightly lit sanctuary of ivory and mirrors, so intensely normal that the contrast made the back of Galathea Brooks' neck prickle.
Cael Alexander walked in directly behind her, his hand resting a fraction of an inch above the curve of her lower back. He occupied the space with the effortless gravity of a man who owned everything he looked at, his custom-tailored suit a sharp contrast to the delicate tulle and lace surrounding them.
The boutique manager, a sharp-eyed woman in a tailored gray suit, materialized instantly. Her professional smile widened into something bordering on reverence the moment she registered Cael's imposing six-foot-five frame occupying her foyer.
