By evening, the estate no longer felt like a monument carved from silence.
Lights glowed warm instead of sharp. Curtains that were usually drawn with military precision had been left slightly open, letting dusk bleed into the living room in soft purples and golds. The air smelled like baked dough, melted cheese, and something unmistakably alive—laughter, movement, the hum of people existing without fear of disturbing a master.
Eloise had started it.
After the afternoon of cooking—risotto primavera that had disappeared in minutes, garlic-herb chicken that left the kitchen smelling like heaven, and a chocolate mousse so rich it made even the stoic Marcos close his eyes on the first bite—she'd decided the night needed more. So she declared a movie night.
Ian had raised an eyebrow when she said that but helped her set things up without comment, she dragged every spare cushion and throw blanket into the grand living room.
No one had dared refuse her.
