The morning after the gala was all grey light and still air, the city wrapped in the hush that follows indulgence.
Charlton Daniel, Grand Duke of Suffox, hadn't slept.
The night before replayed in fragments — the music, the murmurs, Serena Maxwell gliding across the floor in Christopher Cross's arms.
He had thought himself immune to such memories.
He'd told himself that what he felt for her was gone, burned out and buried beneath years of politics and principle.
But the moment he saw her — pale, poised, so composed that even the chandeliers seemed to hold their breath — everything old and buried stirred.
Desire. Regret. The unbearable familiarity of longing.
He was still at his desk when the door opened softly.
"Charlton?"
He turned, startled. Larissa Ligeti stood in the doorway, framed by the dull light.
She looked small against the room's vastness — her soft hair half-braided, her shawl slipping from one shoulder.
