The morning light was pale and washed, filtering through the rain-streaked windows of Notting Hill. James walked toward the bookshop with an uncharacteristic heaviness, each step measured. The confrontation with Charles had left a residue, a subtle, unshakable pressure that lingered in his chest. Eleanor’s interference had reached its peak the night before, yet now, in the daylight, the consequences were only beginning to unfold.
He pushed the door open, the bell chiming faintly above. Penelope was at the counter, arranging a new shipment of books, but the subtle tension in her posture remained. Her hands trembled just slightly as she sorted the stacks, and her gaze darted repeatedly toward the door.
James moved closer. “Morning,” he said quietly, keeping his voice even. “How did it go o
