The tea in Amelia’s cup had gone cold, a thin film forming over the surface, mirroring the stagnation in the room. Mrs. Davies continued to chatter—something about the spring peonies and the butcher’s rising prices—but Amelia’s ears were tuned to the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the gravel outside.
The front door groaned open.
Amelia didn't mind Austin's arrival; she had long since traded her fluttering nerves for a hollow, iron-clad indifference. She remained seated, her spine perfectly aligned with the mahogany back of the chair.
"Welcome home, sir," Mrs. Davies said, dropping a small, practiced curtsy. She acknowledged her master’s presence with a warmth that felt like a relic of a different era.
Austin didn't stop. He didn't offer a polite nod to the housekeeper or a glance
