Accidentally His.
A summon.
Miguel’s gaze drifted lazily over the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits until it landed, unintentionally, on the far end of the ballroom.
There he was.
Adams Sanchez. The man who called himself Miguel’s father.
Even at a distance, Adams looked like he owned the air people breathed around him, one hand cradling a crystal glass of wine, the other tucked neatly into the pocket of his midnight-blue suit. Their eyes met across the crowd. Adams’s smile was deliberate, smug almost, as if this moment had been scripted in his favor all along. He raised his glass toward Miguel again in a slow, deliberate toast.
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