The rain began before dusk — soft at first, then steady, drumming gently against the carriage roof as Serena Maxwell watched the city blur by.London shimmered in that muted, melancholy way it did before nightfall, every lamplight streaking across the wet glass like a fading memory. Her reflection looked ghostly in the window — composed, deliberate, but distant, as if she were watching herself from another life.
She hadn't expected the invitation.
A folded card, sealed in red wax and delivered by Christopher's aide that afternoon. The paper was heavy, the kind that carried intention. Only one line was written in his elegant, restrained hand:
For a quiet consultation. Eight o'clock. The Linden Room, Westbridge Hotel.
No title. No reason.
Yet she understood. It wasn't about politics.
Emily had raised an eyebrow when the note arrived, her skepticism as sharp as ever.
"A consultation," she repeated, too carefully. "He's being generous with euphemisms these days."
