The drive back was silent.
Not empty.
Not calm.
Silent in the way the air gets after lightning strikes too close.
I sat in the back seat with the leather folder in my lap and the whole night pressing against my skin like a fever. My reflection in the dark window looked like someone else’s face—too pale, too still, eyes carrying too much.
The old estate was behind us now.
Celeste was behind us.
Genevieve, Lucien, the portraits, the house, the truths that had split open under chandeliers and old money and family poison—all of it was behind us.
And yet none of it had actually let go.
Because Damian was still in the front seat.
Because every nerve in my body knew exactly where he was without looking.
Because he had said yes in front of all of them.
Yes, she matters.
Yes, I choose
