Clara
We rehearsed in the estate's ballroom two evenings before the gala, an absurd exercise that involved a choreographer Victoria had personally hired to coordinate our entrance, our first dance, even the particular way Sebastian should rest his hand against my back for the cameras.
"Closer," the choreographer instructed, adjusting our positions for the third time. "Mr. Ashford, your wife should feel like the center of your attention, not a colleague you're standing beside at a business function."
Sebastian's hand found the small of my back with practiced ease, and we moved through the steps of a waltz neither of us had actually rehearsed together since our actual wedding day, the two of us falling into the same easy, comfortable rhythm we'd perfected over a year of pretending for exa
