Emma
Laurent's design studio hummed with quiet activity, though I barely registered the soft music playing or the occasional murmur of conversation. My fingers moved on autopilot, needle flashing through layers of silk as I added the final details to the gown for next week's charity showcase.
"Perfect," I whispered, examining the beading that caught light like captured stars. The design had come together better than I'd imagined when sketching it late at night, the twins asleep and the apartment quiet except for the occasional clink of Dominic's coffee cup as he worked in his study.
These quiet moments of creativity had become my sanctuary over the past weeks. A place where I could process everything that had happened—Robert's downfall, the truth about my grandfather's death, and most c
