The morning sun filtered through the manor's eastern windows, casting soft gold across Colden's bedroom floor. He sat at the edge of his bed, already dressed, his fingers brushing the edge of a single dandelion he'd plucked from the garden.
It was a small thing — fragile, wild, and out of place among the roses and sculpted hedges. He tucked it into the lapel of his navy suit, just above his heart, and stared at his reflection.
He didn't know why he chose the dandelion. Only that it reminded him of something simple. Something real.
He walked into town with quiet steps, nodding politely to those who recognized him — or rather, recognized Cole, the traveler with kind eyes and no past.
The inn's door creaked as he pushed it open. The scent of bread and woodsmoke greeted him, but the counter was empty.
"Marco's on leave today," said the baker's boy, wiping his hands on his apron. "Went to visit family, I think."
Colden nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped back into the street.
He wandered for a while, the dandelion still tucked in place, unsure why the absence felt so heavy. Marco was just a man. Just an innkeeper.
But Colden's chest ached in a way he couldn't name.
Across the city, Marco stood outside a building with velvet curtains and a sign carved in gold: BedLovers.
He hesitated.
The brothel was one of many owned by his uncle Wahlberg — a man whose name opened doors and closed mouths. Wahlberg was known for his power, his temper, and the way he looked at people like they were currency.
Marco stepped inside.
The air was thick with perfume and low music. Velvet couches lined the walls, and laughter echoed from behind closed doors. He walked past dancers and patrons, past glances that lingered too long, until he reached the private wing.
He knocked once, then opened the door.
Inside, Wahlberg reclined on a chaise, shirt unbuttoned, a man kneeling between his legs, sucking him of looking at his face and wahlberg clenches tight the man's hair which he seemed to like. The scene froze for a moment — not out of shame, but calculation.
Wahlberg smirked, eyes locking onto Marco's.
"Well," he drawled, voice like smoke. "Look who finally came crawling."
Marco didn't speak. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched.
Wahlberg waved the man away, who left without a word. He sat up, buttoning his shirt slowly, like a performance.
"You need work," he said. "Or money. Or both."
Marco nodded once.
Wahlberg chuckled. "You always were proud. Just like your mother."
Marco flinched.
"She still stitching scraps?" Wahlberg asked, pouring himself a drink. "Tell her I might have a few uniforms that need mending. Or maybe she'd prefer something more… entertaining."
Marco turned to leave.
"Don't be so sensitive," Wahlberg called after him. "Family helps family. Even if they're ungrateful."
Back in WindMere, Livia sat at her sewing table, hands trembling slightly as she unfolded the parchment.
It was an order — official, stamped with the Everhart crest. She was to design and stitch the maid uniforms for Lady Elaine's entourage. Silk, lace, and embroidery. Paid in full.
She stared at the paper, then at the empty basket beside her.
For the first time in months, she would work. She would earn.
She whispered a thank you to no one in particular, then began to thread her needle.
Outside, the wind stirred the laundry line. Inside, hope bloomed quietly.