Delia’s POV
The dining room of the Windsor estate was large enough to host a gala, yet it felt like a tomb. I had spent the last three hours ensuring the table was perfect. The silver was polished to a mirror finish, the candles were flickering with a soft, romantic glow, and the scent of the roasted duck, Julian’s favorite, or so the staff told me, filled the air.
I was wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s cars, my hair swept into a perfect, effortless chignon. I looked exactly like a Windsor wife should. I looked like a woman who had won.
Then I heard the heavy thud of the front door, followed by the measured, rhythmic footsteps of a man who didn't care who was waiting for him.
Julian walked into the dining room, his presence immediately sucking the warmth out of the air
