The night was thick as ink, heavy and unyielding. Theodore still lived in the old Ashford Heir estate. Stepping out of his study, he paused, his voice cool as he instructed, "Daphne's coming back soon. Prepare her favorite dishes. Get lychees from the southern ridges, picked at dawn with dew, chilled with crushed ice. Use a third less sugar for the glaze, and skip the date paste in the cakes."
Then he headed to the room we'd once shared as mates. The maids and servants exchanged nervous glances, palms sweaty, some trembling so hard their legs nearly gave out.
Since Isobel's death, Theodore had changed. Back then, he'd kept my body in an ice shrine, scouring foreign lands for mystics to preserve it with rare balms. He spent a fortune hiring master artisans to restore my face. Every mornin
