The balcony doors closed softly behind Serena as she stepped into the cool air. The hum of the soirée faded to a distant murmur, replaced by the sound of night — the rustle of trees, the faint pulse of violins through the glass.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself. Inside, she had been the perfect guest — composed, luminous, precisely the woman Christopher needed her to be.
Out here, there was no one to perform for.
Or so she thought.
"You always did prefer gardens to ballrooms."
Serena froze at the sound of that voice — deep, smooth, familiar in a way that unsettled her bones.
She turned slowly.
Charlton Daniel stood a few paces away, the lamplight catching in his dark hair, the strong lines of his face half-lit. His eyes — that piercing grey she remembered too well — held her in place.
