The mansion lay drenched in sunlight, that tender, deceptive kind that filtered through tall glass windows in fluid streams of gold, spilling languidly across the marble floors until every inch gleamed with warmth and light. Yet beneath the beauty, a hush lingered—uneasy, weighted, and thick with something unspoken. It was the kind of quiet that did not soothe; it warned.
It was almost noon, and still—Ashton had not stirred.
Belle stood by the window, her reflection ghosted in the glass, fingers absently tracing circles upon the cool surface as her thoughts spiraled elsewhere. Her eyes were open, but her mind was lost in a loop that refused to let her rest. She had not truly slept. Each time she tried, each time her lids grew heavy, the night came back to her in jagged flashes—the thunde
