(Isobel's point of view)
She woke early because the house had taught her to wake when it needed her, not when her body asked for it. Morning light came thin through the curtains, the kind that made every dust mote look like a small, patient star. Etienne's hand was slack across the duvet; for a second she let the sight anchor her — not an argument, not a strategy, simply the steadyment of a life attempting to keep its normal shape.
Sophie was already awake in the other room, the faint clink of a mug as precise as a metronome. Sophie had the same ability she always did to make work feel like armor and ritual into protection. Isobel dressed in clothes Sophie had chosen: quiet colors that read as intentional rather than defensive. Sophie moved around the room with that same efficient tenderness, applying concealer where the past few nights had left their marks and whispering notes about the photographers' angles as if they were choreography rather than calculation.
