Soft morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains, spilling warmth across the silken sheets. The air was still heavy with the scent of lavender and rose oil from the night before — the same fragrance that lingered faintly on Anastasia's skin.
Ernest lay awake, his arm draped lazily across the bed, watching her from the corner of his eye. She was facing him, her lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing even and delicate — a perfect imitation of sleep. He almost laughed.
She had been pretending for a while now.
The corner of his mouth curved. He could still recall the quiet shyness that had melted into passion the night before — the way her hesitation had turned into warmth. Now, she was trying to act as though none of it had happened.
He reached for the robe beside the bed but moved slowly, making just enough sound to test her resolve. Her lashes fluttered — barely — and then stilled again. Ernest hid a smirk.
So, she wanted to play.
