The morning light spilled in through the tall arched windows, painting the marble floors in gold. Serenya Vale moved through the estate’s corridors with measured grace, her silk skirts whispering over stone. Servants glanced up as she passed—some with polite nods, others with barely concealed disdain. She’d grown used to those eyes: the ones that saw her as an intruder in this gilded world, a shadow clinging to a married man’s arm.

Let them look, she thought, chin lifting. They could not deny the emerald clasp at her throat, or the fine perfume from the eastern ports. Comfort had a price, and she had paid it gladly. In return, she had a roof of carved oak, a bed softer than clouds, and a place—however secret—at the side of the man who had plucked her from obscurity.

Her fingers brushed the wall’s intricate tapestries as she neared the solar, recalling his last words to her the night before. Beneath his titles and duties, she knew he cared—not in the way poets wrote of, perhaps, but in the way he made sure she never hungered for anything.

The heavy door opened. Warm lamplight spilled out, and there he stood, turning toward her with that faint, private smile reserved for her alone.

“Serenya,” he said.

She lowered her head just enough to be proper, lips curving. “My lord.”