Ridge stepped aside immediately, removing his sunglasses in a gesture that felt less like submission and more like respect.
Elena picked up the photograph.
From where I stood I could see only the faded edges at first, but when she tilted it slightly the image came into view: Teo at around fifteen, hair longer than academy regulations would later allow, grinning widely between two leather-clad riders, one of whom was unmistakably Ridge, the other a younger man I remembered from childhood barbecues; Teo’s smile in that photograph was not the composed one he wore in official portraits but something freer, almost reckless with joy.
She turned the photograph over.
Her lips moved as she read the handwriting on the back, and I watched her face shift from confusion to something deeper, something almost like recognition.
“What is this?” Marisol whispered beside me.
Elena looked up at Ridge, her voice low but steady. “You kept this?”
“He made two copies,” Ridge said. “Said one was for us, one was for him.”
A murmur rippled through the church, curiosity overtaking suspicion.
“What do you mean?” Elena asked, her fingers tightening around the photo.
