The Ministry of Justice — Late Evening
The building had long emptied, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the steady flicker of gaslight against marble floors.
Christopher Cross stood alone in his office, one hand braced on the window ledge as he watched the rain slide down the glass in thin, silver streaks. The storm outside had yet to break, the city still holding its breath.
He should have been working. Piles of reports and correspondence waited on his desk — matters of law, politics, the thousand moving pieces that made up the new regime. But his mind kept circling back to her.
Serena Maxwell.
Three days.
Three days without her.
He told himself he was grateful for the silence — that she was too dangerous, too distracting. But the lie fell flat even in the privacy of his thoughts. Every night since their last encounter, he'd found himself reliving it — her trembling breath, her quiet surrender, the moment she stopped fighting him and simply yielded.
