Serena
The warmth hit her like a soft shock. The air inside the tea-room smelled of cinnamon and damp wool, of ordinary life untouched by the poison of titles or scandal. A place where people whispered about fashion and weather, not ruin.
It was almost unbearable.
Serena stood by the door a heartbeat too long before Christopher's voice broke the quiet.
"Here," he said, gesturing to a secluded table near the back. "We'll be left alone."
She followed, her gloves damp, her hair clinging faintly to her temple. Every motion felt distant, as though she were watching herself from far away.
Christopher removed his gloves with unhurried precision, the flicker of lamplight catching the deep red of his hair. He was infuriatingly composed — the sort of man whose stillness made others restless.
"Tea?" he asked.
She nodded.
When the waitress left, he leaned back slightly, studying her in silence.
