Camilla's POV
I stood at the window, staring out at the rain. It fell in heavy, relentless sheets, turning the courtyard into a blurred watercolor of grays and greens. The droplets raced down the glass pane, each one distinct for a moment before merging into indistinct rivulets. I pressed my fingertips to the cold surface, tracing the lines they made, feeling the chill seep into my skin—sharp and grounding, a stark contrast to the heat simmering low in my belly.
Lunch had been a disaster. Amelia's eyes—cold, calculating, piercing—had been on me the entire time. Every bite I took felt like a performance under her scrutiny. Lucian, pale and silent beside me, had barely touched his food. Henry, seated across the table, had watched us all with that unreadable expression, his gaze lingering just a little too long—prickling my skin, leaving me feeling exposed, raw, and seen.
