Yes, she's figured that out, but she chalks a lot of it up to his desire to show off and make everything all about himself, too, which suits her fine, because Molotov only wants the spotlight in controlled circumstances, ones she controls. If Tom wants the flashbulbs and cameras, that's okay with her.

She bites her lip and glances up at him, reaching for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "I don't know how to do that," she says quietly, has a whirlwind of mixed emotions about it, none of them related to him. All she knows is how to flit between shadowy hideouts, hotel rooms that she checks into while wearing a wig. It's not that much different from her lack of knowledge and opinion on the wedding.

"I love you."