The carriage stopped in front of the Ministry's private entrance — the same discreet door she had walked through countless times before, though tonight it felt different.
The guards bowed. The doors opened.
Inside, everything was still.
The marble floors gleamed faintly in the gaslight; the hall stretched ahead like a throat swallowing sound.
Serena's footsteps echoed, soft but sure.
When she reached his office, the door was ajar.
"Come in."
His voice was quiet, unhurried — the kind that made her heart ache because it always sounded like control.
She entered.
Christopher Cross stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his reflection fractured in the glass by the city lights.
On his desk lay the morning's paper, folded perfectly, as though it were no more than a trivial report.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"You came," he said finally, without turning.
"You summoned me," she answered softly.
