The dining room had become her makeshift office.
It wasn’t ideal—too close to the kitchen, too exposed to wandering little feet and Sebastian’s casual eavesdropping—but the morning light made the space feel less like work and more like something sacred. The wide windows overlooked the garden, where lavender swayed gently in the breeze and the faint sounds of life moved unhurriedly beyond the glass. It smelled like rosemary and warm air. It felt like calm.
And for the first time in weeks, Isabelle didn’t feel like she was sprinting toward a finish line she couldn’t see.
She sat cross-legged in one of the dining chairs, her laptop angled to catch the best light, papers stacked on either side of her, and a notepad that had already accumulated three different lists in her looping cursive. H
