The corridors of Daleworth's estate were hushed now, emptied of perfume and pretense. The music had faded to a ghostly echo, a melody half-remembered.
Serena walked slowly, the hem of her gown whispering against the marble floor. The night's applause and whispers still clung to her, phantom hands at her back.
Christopher had told her to meet him here — the small study at the end of the west corridor.
She had agreed without asking why.
A foolish thing, she thought now, pausing before the closed door.
She could still leave. She could still tell herself that the performance had been enough — the smiles, the touch, the illusion of victory.
But her hand was already on the handle.
The door opened without resistance.
The study was dim, lit only by the flicker of the fire and a single lamp on the desk. The scent of old books and brandy hung in the air.
