Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the breakfast hall, painting long stripes across the polished floor. Esteve sat at the table, staring into a cup of untouched coffee. The bitter smell made his stomach twist.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face in the shadows, felt the press of her hand, heard the whisper of her breath. The hidden passage still clung to him—the air thick with secrets, the taste of betrayal heavy on his tongue.
Gustavo entered with his usual energy, the silk of his robe trailing behind him. "Buenos días, hijo!" he boomed, clapping Esteve on the shoulder. "I trust you're settling back into the house?"
Esteve forced a thin smile. "Yeah. It's… good to be back."
Gustavo laughed, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air. He poured himself orange juice, humming a tune. "Anne will join us soon. She insisted on preparing something special for breakfast—says she wants to make the house feel more like home."
The sound of footsteps announced her before Esteve dared to look up. Anne appeared in a pale dress, her hair pulled back loosely, her expression calm. Too calm.
"Good morning," she said smoothly, kissing Gustavo's cheek. Then her eyes shifted, only briefly, to Esteve. A glance, nothing more. But it struck him like a blade.
He looked away, gripping his cup.
"You've outdone yourself," Gustavo said as servants brought in platters of fruit, bread, and pastries. "Everything looks perfect."
Anne smiled politely. "I only wanted to do something small."
Her voice was steady, but Esteve heard the echo of last night hidden beneath it. He felt it in the way her hand lingered too long on the silverware, in the careful control of her posture. She was performing. They both were.
Gustavo, pouring honey over toast, chuckled. "You two should spend more time together today. Anne, perhaps you could show Esteve the gardens—or the library. He was always sneaking books out when he was younger."
Anne's eyes flickered to Esteve again, unreadable. "Yes," she said softly. "I'd like that."
Esteve nodded stiffly, unable to speak. His chest felt tight, as if the walls of the mansion were pressing in on him.
Gustavo beamed, raising his glass. "To family," he declared. "To the future!"
Anne lifted her glass. Esteve hesitated before doing the same. The crystal rang as they touched, but to him it sounded more like a warning bell than a toast.
When Gustavo laughed again, carefree, Esteve felt the first crack of dread. Secrets could not stay buried in a house like this. And the longer they tried to act as though nothing had happened, the more certain it became: the mansion would force the truth into the light.
---
The library was vast, lined floor to ceiling with books bound in leather and dust. The scent of parchment and polish filled the air. Anne trailed her fingers along the shelves as if she were touching old friends.
"Your father says you used to hide in here," she said softly.
Esteve shrugged. "Books don't ask questions."
She smiled faintly. "No. But they keep secrets, don't they?"
He glanced at her. The way she said it, the way her voice lingered on the word secrets, sent a shiver through him. Their hands brushed as they reached for the same volume. Neither pulled back immediately.
"Anne—" he began, but the rest of his words dissolved.
She was too close now, the air between them charged. Her perfume, faint and floral, filled his head. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then she stepped back suddenly, clearing her throat. "Come. Let's go to the garden."
---
The garden stretched wide under the sun, roses climbing marble arches, gravel paths twisting through manicured hedges. Anne walked ahead, her hand grazing the flowers as though she belonged among them.
"It's beautiful," Esteve admitted quietly.
Anne turned, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if testing his sincerity. "And yet you look like you're suffocating."
He exhaled, tension breaking. "I don't know how to be here. Around him. Around you."
Her lips parted, and for a moment the mask slipped again. "Do you think it's easier for me?" she whispered.
They stood too close now, the garden silent around them. Esteve felt the warmth of her breath, saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes—and the undeniable pull beneath it.
This time, when their lips nearly met, Anne pulled away first. She pressed a hand against his chest, not pushing him, but holding him there.
"Not here," she murmured. "Not yet."
Her words weren't rejection. They were a promise, dangerous and heavy.
And Esteve, watching her walk away down the gravel path, knew he was already too far gone.
---