Chapter 12

Alistair’s POV

I settled onto the plush leather couch in the hotel’s ornate sitting room, my fingers fidgeting with the knot of my charcoal-gray tie. Camille DeWitt was downstairs, fixing Lyra’s hair and makeup, yet every minute seemed to stretch into an eternity. It was unlike me to wait so patiently. Normally, I’d pace the floor, checking my watch every few seconds. Today, though, I found myself strangely calm—almost anxious, which puzzled me more than anything. Why was I on edge? Was it Camille’s meticulous perfectionism, or something about today that felt different? Women and their interminable beauty rituals, I sighed inwardly, though I couldn’t shake this growing anticipation.

I leaned back, closing my eyes, trying to will away the tension in my chest. The room smelled faintly of rosewood and lavender from the diffuser by the door. My thoughts drifted to the gown I’d personally selected for Lyra, the way its sapphire-blue silk would catch the light, the swee