The first thing Serena noticed when she opened her eyes was the silence.
The storm had passed, leaving behind that heavy, suspended quiet that follows too much rain — the kind that makes every heartbeat sound like a confession.
Her head ached. Her body felt strange, too aware of itself.
And for a moment she didn't remember where she was — not until the scent reached her: smoke, sandalwood, and faint traces of wine.
Christopher's scent.
His office.
Last night.
The realization struck like a blade drawn slowly.
She sat up too quickly, the world spinning. Her cloak was draped over the arm of the chair; her gloves had fallen to the floor. Every object — the overturned glass, the crumpled sheet of parchment, the clock ticking on the desk — seemed to accuse her.
She remembered his touch.
Not tender, not cruel — just consuming. A final act of ownership before the fall.
And she remembered how she hadn't stopped him.
