Night did not fall.
It gathered.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
By the time darkness settled over the estate, the sky held a deep iron-blue stillness, as though the world had paused between breaths. Frost returned to the edges of the stone balustrades, and the garden lamps glowed faintly through rising mist.
Elara stood on the terrace wrapped in a wool coat she did not remember putting on.
Cold bit at her fingertips.
She welcomed it.
It kept her present.
Grounded.
Because the day had left something inside her unsettled — a pressure beneath her ribs that no amount of rational thought could silence.
She had watched restraint hold.
She had watched instinct strain against it.
And worse—
she had felt it.
Not as an observer.
As a participant.
"Ugh," she whispered to the night. "This is ridiculous."
The air did not disagree.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Measured.
Familiar.
She did not turn.
"You prefer the cold," came the quiet voice of Alessandro de Luca.
