The night smelled like cut grass, roses, and rain that hadn’t yet arrived. Somewhere down the slope, hidden irrigation clicked on in polite rhythmic bursts. The noise from the ballroom reached me only faintly through the glass now—muted chaos, not language.
For a long moment I just stood there breathing.
Then the terrace door opened behind me.
I turned, expecting Julian perhaps, or one of his horrified relatives, or a planner in black asking whether there was a statement she should give the caterer.
It was my father.
He had taken off his jacket. His tie hung loosened at his throat. Under the amber terrace light he looked suddenly, shockingly old. Not old in years alone, but in the way regret ages men who have spent too long believing there would be time later.
“Aar.”
The sound of my name in his voice after so many years did not soften me.
It also did not destroy me.
That, more than anything, surprised me.
He came only a few steps onto the terrace and stopped, as if some part of him understood that proximity was no longer his right.
“I need to talk to you.”
“You’ve had fifteen years.”
The words came out calm.
He flinched anyway.