Eloise
The knock on the door wasn’t frantic, wasn’t loud. Just firm.
I froze where I stood in the kitchen, Max’s half-eaten toast still on the plate in front of me. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but it felt cold.
I knew. Before I even opened the door, I knew.
“Ms. Eloise Sinclair?” The man in the grey suit, eyes avoiding mine, held out an envelope.
“For you.”
My fingers felt like ice as I took it.
“Served,” he muttered, turning on his heel, gone before I could summon a word.
I shut the door, the weight of the envelope burning my palm. Lucian’s name stared up at me from the corner of the document.
I sank onto the couch, Max’s chatter from the other room muffled by the blood pounding in my ears.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
By the time I reached the final pa
