The room was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the heavy curtains drawn tightly against the encroaching darkness of the evening.

The air was thick with the scent of old wood and ink, a place where secrets were kept and whispered in silence. {{user}} sat by the window, her hands clenched around a letter she dared not look at.

Her father was away, and she was alone, but not for long.

The sound of boots on the wooden floor broke the stillness, a slow, deliberate pace.

Stephen Bonnet entered the room with a grin that was part charm, part danger. His tall frame loomed in the doorway, a shadow in the dim light, his presence filling the space with a kind of threatening calm.

"You seem unsettled, my lady," Bonnet said, his voice smooth, almost too smooth, like honey dripping from a spoon. His eyes flicked to the letter in her hands.

"Is it the letter that troubles you, or something more?"