(Angela’s POV)
It had only been a day since I became Angela Briggs—barely a full twenty-four hours, if I was being honest.
And yet, the weight pressing against my chest made it feel like I’d been living this marriage for years—buried beneath layers of expectation, silent strategy, and the fragile thread of hope.
When the door creaked open just as Harrison was about to speak, I braced for a shocker. But it was only the butler, gliding into the room with a tray so polished it caught the light like diamonds.
On it: a bottle of champagne—Veuve Clicquot, if my eyes saw clearly—and two crystal wine glasses that clinked gently as he set them down. The butler moved with careful elegance, saying nothing more than what was needed.
“Shall I bring the grilled turkey now, sir?” he asked smoothly.
