Greyson's gaze was fixed intensely on the parchment in his hand—so intent that one might think he was locked in a silent duel with it.
But it wasn't the words on the page that held him captive.
It was her.
A single figure, threading through his thoughts with unsettling persistence.
He leaned back slightly, the parchment lowering just a fraction as his mind drifted.
The ball.
He remembered it clearly—the first time their paths had crossed. The way she had moved, composed on the surface, yet beneath it… there had been something else. A tension. A quiet, restrained anxiety he had noticed but dismissed.
Then the corridor.
The memory sharpened.
Her breathing—uneven, hurried. The fear in her eyes. Real fear.
Still, he hadn't thought much of it then.
But now—
Now it made sense.
A slow realization had taken root, unfolding piece by piece until it formed something undeniable.
"She was afraid of being caught…" he murmured under his breath.
A maid.
