KENDRA
Sleep didn’t come easily that night.
Even after Pascal left the kitchen, I stood there for a long time, staring at the cold remains of my tea. Every sound in that cavernous mansion felt amplified, the ticking clock, the whisper of wind through the trees outside, the faint hum of the refrigerator. I could still feel the ghost of his nearness, the warmth that lingered even after he’d gone.
But underneath that warmth was something sharper. A voice that had been quiet for too long, my own voice, whispering that I hadn’t come here just to play house with Pascal Anderson.
By dawn, I’d decided what I needed to do.
The following morning, I dressed for the office earlier than usual. A pale gray suit, crisp white blouse, hair slicked back into a low bun. I needed armor today, and this wa
