The Biskit estate’s lounge glowed softly in the amber wash of the fireplace. The air was thick with warmth and the faint scent of garden jasmine drifting through the open French doors. Britney Biskit lounged in the oversized armchair, one leg folded lazily over the other, an untouched glass of sparkling cider catching the flicker of firelight beside her.

Her silk robe slipped just enough to show the smooth line of her shoulder as she leaned forward to turn a page in the magazine balanced on her knee. Outside, rain began to tap at the windows, slow at first, then steady—its rhythm merging with the low hum of the fire. She smiled faintly, not at anything in particular, but at the quiet thrill of the moment: the warmth, the solitude, the electric stillness that seemed to hold its breath just for her.