A figure emerged.

He was tall, imposing, wearing a dark suit that cost more than my entire education. He stepped onto the grass with the kind of authority that cannot be bought, only wielded. He scanned the scene—the crying bride, the cowering groom, the furious matriarch—with piercing blue eyes that mirrored my own.

It was him.

My father. Senator David Thornton.

I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since he chose his ambition over his wife and child. But there was no mistaking the jawline, the aura of power. Behind him, a phalanx of grim-faced men in suits carrying briefcases poured out of the helicopter like a special ops team.

Patricia’s mouth fell open.