A glance at the screen, and I know what it means.
“I have to go,” he says after a moment, his voice low, the words deliberate. His hand brushes mine, not quite letting go.
I nod, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
He watches me for a beat longer before standing, buttoning his shirt, straightening his cuffs. He looks at me once more before heading to the door.
“I won’t be gone long,” he says, and then he’s gone, the quiet settling in around me again.
The room still feels warm, the faint scent of coffee lingering. I curl back into the bed, my thoughts circling the same truth I’ve been avoiding.
Maybe he really does want me here. And maybe, just maybe, he means it.
The thought lingers as the morning drifts on, curling into every quiet space around me. I stay in his room longer than I mean to, the warmth of the bed and the faint scent of him still clinging to the sheets. It feels like a cocoon I don’t want to leave, but eventually, the stillness presses in.
I rise slowly, the floor cool beneath my bare feet as I gather my things. The clock on the mantel edges toward noon, the light spilling through the curtains warmer now, streaking across the room in muted gold.
The shower is quick but unhurried, the steam rising around me, carrying away the traces of the night before. The water is hot, steady against my skin, grounding me. By the time I step out, the mirror is fogged, my hair damp against my shoulders, the faint scent of lavender soap clinging to me.
I dress simply, smoothing the fabric into place, my movements quiet in the stillness.
When I leave the room, the estate feels different without him at my side. The halls are wide and hushed, sunlight spilling in long strips through the tall windows, the air carrying the faint trace of fresh flowers from somewhere beyond.
I move toward the garden without thinking, drawn by the promise of air and open space. The moment I step outside, the shift is immediate. The sunlight spreads across the stone path, warm against my skin. The trimmed hedges stand tall, their leaves bright in the light.
The garden is hushed, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. The roses hold the last traces of dew, their petals open and full. I walk further along the path, my hand brushing lightly against the edges of the hedge, the scent of green and earth rising faintly around me.
It feels different out here—clearer, lighter. The weight of the house falls away behind me, and for the moment, it’s just the quiet pull of the garden ahead.
I take the longer path, the one that curves past the fountain before circling back toward the roses. The sound of water is soft, steady, folding into the stillness of the garden.
I am almost at the far edge when the rhythm changes. The quiet no longer feels untouched.
Camilla’s voice carries before she comes into view, low and smooth, threaded with that calculated sweetness I have learned to recognize. It is enough to set my steps slowing, my pulse tightening in my chest.
I should run, avoid her, but she's already there, standing near the curve of the hedge, her posture perfect, her eyes fixed on me in a way that feels deliberate.
“Liliana,” she says, her tone warm enough to sound pleasant to someone who doesn’t know better. “You do love your walks in the garden, don't you? It's almost as if you’re avoiding the parts of the house where you don’t belong.”
Her tone is light, but the undercurrent is the same as always. A reminder that she thinks she belongs here more than I do.
I don’t stop walking. I don’t answer her. My silence is the only shield I have.
She closes the space between us with unhurried precision, her eyes drifting over me like she’s cataloging every detail, weighing and discarding each one as though she already knows the verdict.
“I have to hand it to you,” she says, her voice smooth, carrying that false warmth that hides the bite beneath. “You’ve learned how to look the part. The dress, the posture, the carefully arranged face… almost enough to make someone forget where you came from, what you really are. Almost.”
Her gaze drops, deliberate, to the ring on my finger. A glint catches in her smile, sharp enough to cut. “I suppose anyone can wear the crown, if they can hold it still long enough for no one to notice how it’s slipping.”
The words land with a clean precision. She pauses, letting them linger in the space between us, her head tilting slightly as though she’s waiting—watching for the smallest crack where her words might take root.
The air feels closer, heavier. I shift, meaning to move past her, but another voice slices into the moment.
“Camilla.”
Alba’s tone is calm, but it carries weight. She steps into view from a side corridor, her presence quiet but commanding, her gaze steady and cool. I have no idea when she arrived, but I'm grateful for her here.
The look she directs to Camilla is the kind of look that doesn’t need volume to hit its mark. “That will be enough.”
