The Winterbourne Conservatory was made almost entirely of glass — an elegant relic from a gentler time, when nobles built beauty for its own sake.
By late afternoon, the light slanted through the domed ceiling, pale and fractured, like shards of memory turned to gold.
Serena Maxwell stood at the gate for far too long.
Her car had dropped her off ten minutes ago, but she hadn't moved. The ironwork gleamed with moisture, fine droplets catching the late sun. It would be so easy to turn back, to let this meeting remain unspoken — to keep her world small, controlled, predictable.
But the letter burned in her glove, folded against her palm like a heartbeat she couldn't silence.
She drew a slow breath, gathering the fragile threads of composure she had left, and stepped forward. The gravel crunched beneath her boots, the sound impossibly loud in the still air.
Her heart stuttered with every step.
Through the glass, she could already see him.
