That night, the halls of Cedric's estate were unusually quiet. The servants had been dismissed early, and only the low flicker of candlelight lit the corridors leading to Isadora's chamber.
Inside, Isadora sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting stiffly in her lap. She could hear Cedric's footsteps long before the door opened—steady, deliberate, like a man who had already decided what was going to happen.
He stepped inside, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You look tense," he said, closing the door behind him. "There's no need for that."
Isadora didn't answer, her eyes tracking his movements as he crossed the room. He carried a small tray—wine, fruit, and something sweetly scented she couldn't quite place.
"I thought we could talk," Cedric began, setting the tray down. "We've had… misunderstandings. I'd rather we start over. No more fighting, no more running."
She forced a neutral tone. "And if I don't want to start over?"
