The morning dawned pale and windless — the kind of September day that looked gentle but carried a chill beneath its beauty. The sky was an indifferent gray, the color of unpolished silver, and from her window, Serena Maxwell watched the light scatter across the rooftops like something too pure to touch.
It was a world gilded and distant — one she no longer belonged to, yet could never fully escape.
The letter had arrived an hour ago.
It lay open now on her dressing table, the parchment faintly creased where her fingers had lingered too long. The handwriting was elegant, unmistakably deliberate — each letter sharp, as though carved instead of written.
"I will call for you at seven.There will be eyes. Let them see what they will."— C.C.
The ink had bled slightly, a small imperfection — proof that even Christopher Cross, with all his control, had written it quickly.
