The snow hadn’t let up. It kept falling—slow, steady, quiet as breath—as if the sky had nothing better to do. It coated the windows, the courtyard, the long stone paths of the estate until everything looked soft and still. Everything but Vivian.
Her steps were careful, boots muffled against the thick rugs lining the hallway. The ache in her thighs reminded her of every stretch, every strike she’d thrown the night before. She hadn’t slept much. Not from pain. From thinking.
Harroway had said he wanted to show her something "off the record." That alone should’ve raised more questions than she’d allowed herself to ask.
He was already there, naturally. Leaning against a shelf, arms folded like he’d been waiting half the morning. There was a ledger open in his hand, but he wasn’t reading it.
