The months accumulated like scar tissue.
One day at dinner Odette was in a mood. "Natalia, darling. That necklace. Is it new? It looks like something from the market district. The lower market district."
The table went quiet.
Ronan looked up, eyes narrowed. "It's her mother's."
"Oh." Odette pressed her fingers to her lips. "Oh, I'm so sorry. It's lovely. For what it is."
Asher and Ronan met eyes. No words were needed.
Asher and Natalia existed in the spaces between protocol.
They both avoided one another with such precision it had become its own language, a dialect spoken fluently by two people who would rather bleed internally than burden the other with the truth.
