Serena
September nights had their own kind of chill — one that slipped past silk and jewels and settled beneath the skin, a whisper of endings waiting to begin again.
The soirée at Lord Daleworth's estate was in full bloom by the time Serena arrived. The gardens had been strung with glass lanterns, their light reflecting off champagne and gossip in equal measure. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom, where laughter clinked like fragile crystal.
Serena descended from the car alone. She had insisted on it.
If anyone noticed, they would assume she had arranged to meet someone inside.
Let them.
Every rumor was currency; every gaze a blade she could learn to wield.
Her gown tonight was pale gold — understated but precise — the color of a woman who had once commanded rooms and now merely haunted them. Her hair was gathered low, a few loose strands softening her expression, almost masking the exhaustion beneath.
