The door creaked open. Greta stepped out, wrapped in her finest travel dress, charcoal wool, thick and elegant. It wasn't flashy, but it was warm enough to survive a full day in Eisthal's bone-deep cold. She'd paired it with a velvet cape, soft as a whisper, and after one last glance in the mirror, she nodded to herself. Perfect.
But the moment her boot touched the icy stone of the corridor, she froze.
James was already there.
The Duke's personal aide stood like a shadow carved from the wall itself, unmoving, unreadable. Waiting. Watching. As if he'd been stationed there all night just for this moment.
"Good morning, Lady Von Meier," he said, voice smooth and warm, surprisingly gentle for a man whose eyes could cut glass. There was something untouchable about him, like he belonged to no one and nothing.
"Are you ready to meet His Grace?" he asked, gaze flicking over her with quiet appraisal.
Greta gave a curt nod. "Where is he?"
