The sun had broken through the heavy clouds for the first time in nearly a week, casting long beams of golden light through the tall windows of the Astrevault estate. The halls smelled faintly of lemon polish and fresh linen. Somewhere upstairs, the housekeeper was dusting the art gallery, while muted footsteps echoed from the west wing, where the maids moved between rooms with practiced efficiency.

Elias Corven had little to do this morning — a rarity. Reginald Astrevault had left early for a business trip, and his absence had left behind a strange, hollow stillness. With the house operating like a well-oiled mechanism, Elias found himself without urgency, his steps slowing as he passed through the parlor and into the main hall.

He paused. Through the open double doors of the living room, he saw her.

Lady Evelyne Astrevault.

She sat alone near the grand window, framed by velvet drapes. She wore a flowing ivory blouse of delicate lace beneath a warm, camel-toned coat adorned with a golden brooch. Her dark chestnut hair cascaded in soft, composed waves over her shoulder, and around her neck hung a necklace of black stone, elegant and antique. She was a painting in motion — timeless, composed, yet deeply human in the fragile way she held her teacup.

She wasn’t reading or speaking or writing letters. She was simply... sitting. Looking out the window at the gardens below, untouched tea growing cold in her hands. The light caught the side of her face, softening her features, making her look younger — but also impossibly distant. There was a quiet ache in her eyes. Not sadness. Not quite. Something deeper. Loneliness, perhaps. Or weariness without name.

Elias didn’t speak. He rarely did unless spoken to. But for once, something tugged at him — curiosity, empathy, something unprofessional. He lingered by the threshold, barely making a sound.