Morning found the mansion quiet in the way only heavily guarded, impeccably staffed places ever were.
Gregoris was already up.
He sat in the armchair near the tall windows of what had, very recently, become their bedroom, one long leg crossed over the other, a cup of black coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. Reports scrolled past with the steady rhythm of logistics and security updates, the world continuing to demand his attention regardless of coronations, scandals, or newly acquired husbands.
On the low table by his chair waited a breakfast tray. Warm tea, toast, fruit, and something light were ordered with the tact of a man who had already memorized a physician's recommendations.
The bathroom door opened.
Steam drifted out first, warm and faintly scented, followed by Rafael, hair still damp, wrapped in a robe that was far too soft and far too domestic for a man who had spent most of his life weaponizing elegance.
He took two steps into the room.
Then stopped.
