Morning came with a rush of schedules. Clara woke to the sound of soft knocks, then the entry of assistants bearing trays of breakfast she hadn’t ordered and itineraries she didn’t understand.
Nicholas was already dressed, of course—impeccable in a charcoal suit, tie knotted with precision, his posture radiating effortless command. He barely glanced at the breakfast laid out before them, thumbs moving across his phone as though the world itself waited for his decisions.
“Let’s eat,” he said, without lifting his gaze.
Clara hesitated, guilt pricking at her. “Sorry I woke up late.” Her voice was soft, almost defensive. The truth was, she had slept better than she had in years—wrapped in luxury, cocooned in silence, and haunted by the memory of the man who had lingered in her thoughts all
