Morning came too quickly.
I barely remembered falling asleep, my eyes still burning from spending the rest of the night memorising faces in the leather-bound "bible" Joel had given me.
Yet here I was, seated at the long breakfast table with a cup of untouched coffee cooling in my hands.
The morning sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, clinical streaks of light across the white linen.
It was a beautiful day, the kind that mocked the cold, dark weight sitting in the pit of my stomach.
As always, the Quinn estate was quiet in that controlled, suffocating way that came with power.
The servants moved like shadows, silent and controlled. Everything felt deliberate.
Across from me, Joel sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid as always with a tablet in his hand.
Estelle sat beside me, her presence softer, warmer.
I picked at a croissant, slowly lifting it to my lips, my thoughts far from the dinner.
Cassian.
Why did he agree?
