MARGARET’S POV
I ended the call with trembling fingers.
The screen went dark, reflecting a faint, distorted version of my own face at me—older, tighter around the eyes, the lines of composure pulled too thin to hold.
I lowered the phone and exhaled slowly, careful to keep my trembling hands steady, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile calm I had forced into place.
Then, I heard what had made me hang up in the first place: footsteps.
Soft. Unhurried. Purposeful.
I straightened immediately, smoothing my expression into something neutral as the sound approached the door.
I didn’t need to look to know who it was. There was only one person in this place who walked with that particular blend of entitlement and familiarity.
A polite knock sounded, more per
