The night stretched long after the estate fell silent. The revelry had died, the wine had run dry, and the halls stood empty. Yet Adriana’s mind wouldn’t quiet. Isabella’s words clung to her like smoke, choking every thought.
He hasn’t denied it. He hasn’t chosen you.
Adriana paced Damian’s private office, her bare feet silent on the polished floor. The curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the dying fire in the hearth. She had waited for him all evening, fury and fear twisting tighter inside her chest.
The door opened at last. Damian stepped inside, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his face shadowed. He froze when he saw her.
“Adriana,” he said softly, almost like a question.
She stood straighter. “We need to talk.”
He closed the door, locking it
