[Rynthall Estate—Dawn | The Drawing Room]
The sky was just beginning to pale into soft lavender. The last wisps of storm clouds clung to the horizon like reluctant shadows, casting the estate in a pale, silvery glow.
But inside House Rynthall?
There was silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
No. This silence was the kind that made seasoned guards stand straighter. That made butlers tread lightly, as if the floor might judge them. Even the enchanted grandfather clock by the archway ticked slower—hesitant, almost apologetic, unsure whether it had permission to exist.
Because Lucien Rynthall was awake.
And he was not pleased.
He sat stiffly on the velvet couch—posture impeccable, expression unreadable. In his arms, lying peacefully against his chest, was the smallest storm ever born. His daughter. His heart.
