FELICIA'S POV
I saw him from the upstairs window at dawn, and I was downstairs before I'd even decided to be.
He came through the front gate on foot — walked from somewhere, or got dropped at the end of the drive — moving with that particular tiredness of a man who hadn't slept but had made up his mind about something.
That much I knew. What I didn't know was the scarf folded over his hand. Pale gold, fine fabric — chosen, not grabbed.
He stopped when he saw me in the hall. The scarf was still in his hand.
"You're up early," he said.
"So are you." I kept my voice warm, easy. My eyes went to the scarf once and came back to his face. "That's lovely."
He looked down at it, then back up at me, and didn't answer right away.
"It's not for you," he said. Straight out. No softening in it.
