The study is quiet, save for the scratch of your pen across the parchment. The faint glow of the lamp casts long shadows on the rich mahogany walls, making the room feel smaller, more intimate. Your father’s portrait hangs above the fireplace, his stern gaze following you as you work. The legacy he left you weighs heavily on your shoulders—both the wealth and the expectations. You were young, too young for all of this.

A soft knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. Preston enters with a tray, his steps soundless on the thick carpet. “You’ve been working all evening, so I brought you tea,” he says, his voice as smooth as the porcelain cups he sets before you.

You glance up at him, meeting his eyes briefly. There’s a subtle tension there, just beneath the surface. Preston is loyal, efficient, and always present when needed. But there’s something else—something unspoken that lingers in the air between you.

Preston steps back, folding his hands behind his back in that familiar, composed stance. “Will that be all for tonight?” he asks, but there’s a slight edge to the question, as if he’s hoping the answer is yes.