The rain had not stopped since dawn.
It slid down the windowpanes of Emily's townhouse in long, silver trails, blurring the outline of the garden beyond. The air smelled of wet leaves and distant smoke. The city outside was awake — but Serena was not yet ready to join it.
She sat by the parlor window, hair unbound, her robe pale against the soft velvet chair. The events of the night before replayed in her mind with cruel clarity — Charlton's arrival, Christopher's voice, the eyes of everyone watching as he kissed her ear before the world.
The kiss had been soft, but there was nothing tender about it.
It was declaration. Claim. A line drawn between possession and protection.
She had smiled through it all, because she had to. Because she knew what survival looked like now — it wore silk and smiled when it bled.
Yet here, in the fragile quiet of morning, she could still feel it: the weight of his lips on her ear, the chill of Charlton's gaze watching her leave.
