Ziva's gaze lifted, drawn by instinct, and met Lara's across the widening threshold of the hall. For a single, suspended heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Lara smiled, and she offered back a small smile carved from brittle courtesy, lowering her head in a curtsy that was more ritual than respect — a shield disguised as grace.
"Ziva."
Landor's hand tightened at her waist, possessive and alert. He felt the subtle shift in his wife's demeanor before he ever saw it — the way her body went rigid, the way her breath slipped shallow and thin.
"Is something wrong?"
She denied it with the faintest shake of her head, though the denial tasted like ash. She allowed herself to be drawn forward, letting Landor guide her through the towering doors of the banquet hall.
Inside, firelight from the candelabra and the afternoon sun spilled across the marble floor.
And the first thing she saw was not the grandeur of the hall nor the opulence of the golden throne at the far end of the hall.
