The night was soft with fog, its silence the kind that swallows sound. Serena's carriage came to a stop before the townhouse on the outskirts of the city. The Nest.
The name alone ached.
She remembered whispering it once against Charlton's skin, back when the place had been their refuge, a cocoon against the world that demanded too much.
Now, it was something else—an echo of everything that had burned away.
She stood there a moment longer than necessary before lifting the latch and stepping down. The key she still kept gleamed faintly in her gloved hand.
Inside, the lock turned easily—as though he'd oiled it himself.
The air was clean. The hearth was lit. The table held two glasses and a bottle of red wine, its scent faintly warm. Every detail precise. Familiar. It was, horribly, still his way of loving.
"Serena."
The voice came from behind her, quiet but steady.
