The rain had not stopped.
It fell in a slow, relentless cadence, tapping against the shutters of the small townhouse that had become Serena Maxwell's refuge.
She had not slept.
The gown from the night before hung over the chair—creased silk, faint traces of perfume and smoke. She stared at it as though it might explain the choices that had led her here.
In the reflection of the window, her own face looked like a stranger's: composed, yes, but hollow around the eyes.
She replayed every movement of the evening—the laughter, the whispers, the waltz, and Christopher's mouth brushing her glove.
The way the world had turned to look at her.
The way Charlton had looked away.
Her pulse still remembered it.
Emily had already retired upstairs, Leonard had gone to his study despite the hour. The house was silent save for the rain and the uneven rhythm of her thoughts.
