My sister hurled red wine across my dress uniform and told me I had no place in that ballroom, my father told security to get me out before I humiliated his future son-in-law, and I watched the stain slide over my ribbons, checked the countdown on my watch, and said, “You’re right. I don’t,” because in less than a minute the entire room was going to understand why I had really come.
Preston’s practiced smile tightened at the edges. He glanced at the glowing numbers on my wrist, then back up at my face. Whatever he expected to find there—humiliation, panic, tears—he didn’t find it.
He found patience.
And in the wrong moment, pure, unadulterated patience is vastly more frightening than anger.
