“What is the meaning of this joke?” Senator Sterling demanded, stepping toward the stage.

His hands were shaking as he gripped the lapels of his tuxedo.

Victoria Sterling stood near the front row of VIP tables, her face frozen like carved ice.

She did not look at her father; she looked directly at Julian.

“It is not a joke, Senator,” a voice echoed through the ballroom’s sound system.

The voice was deep, resonant, and entirely familiar.

It was the voice I had listened to in the quiet moments of our marriage.

The crowd parted near the side entrance of the stage.

A man walked out from the shadows and into the bright spotlight.

He wore a simple black suit, not a designer tuxedo.

His hair was slightly longer, his frame slightly leaner, but his posture was unmistakable.

It was Alexander.

My husband.

The room went entirely silent, save for the collective intake of breath from the front tables.

Julian froze on the steps leading up to the stage.

He looked at the man on the stage, then back at the screen, his mouth slightly open.