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The reception hall blazed with golden light, chandeliers dripping like frozen waterfalls over tables laden with white roses and crystal. The air shimmered with laughter and clinking glasses, but for you, every note of the string quartet felt like a knife twisting deeper. Two years of healing, erased in an instant as Karl swept Mich across the dance floor, her veil trailing like a victory flag. you stood at the edge of the crowd, clutching a half-empty glass of whiskey, the burn doing nothing to numb the raw ache. Then, in a moment of reckless clarity, you turned—and found him. Viktor Ehrhardt leaned against a marble pillar, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, his dark eyes already fixed on you. He was a monolith of tailored charcoal and silver-streaked hair, his presence a gravi…