The west wing of the estate was silent, a stark contrast to the lively sounds of Derek's bedchamber. The heavy curtains in Ashlyn's bedchamber were drawn, blocking out the moonlight, leaving the room in a suffocating, dusty twilight.
Ashlyn slipped through the door, her movements quick and furtive. She held a glass of water in her hand, the condensation cool against her palm. She had woken up parched, her throat dry from another night of restless, nightmare-filled sleep. She had gone to the hallway table, avoiding the servants, avoiding the eyes of anyone who might pity or mock the "disgraced" Second Lady.
She thought she was alone. She thought she was in isolation.
But she wasn't.
She stopped dead in the center of the room. Her hand shook, water sloshing over the rim of the glass and dripping onto the carpet.
Someone was on her bed.
