The rain had been falling since dusk — steady, relentless — drumming softly against the conservatory's glass walls.
Serena stood just beyond the doorway, every instinct telling her to leave.
And yet she didn't.
The letter had been brief. No explanations, only a place and a time — his signature sharp, deliberate, inevitable.
Seven o'clock. The conservatory. — C.C.
He always left her no room for refusal, and she always found reasons not to refuse.
She should have burned that letter. She'd even held it over the candle's flame for a heartbeat too long — watching the wax soften, the parchment curl — but she couldn't. Because part of her wanted to know what it would feel like to be wanted again, even if the price was her ruin.
When she finally stepped inside, the air was thick with warmth and the scent of damp roses.
Christopher stood at the far end, near the piano, the lamplight striking off his dark red hair. His coat was off, his waistcoat unbuttoned.
