The sun was warm that afternoon, slipping lazily through the open windows of the packhouse kitchen. The air smelled faintly of herbs and baked bread, and Aurora’s soft laughter drifted through the room like music.
She was surrounded by a few of the maids, sleeves rolled up, dusting flour from her hands as she tried to knead dough. One of them teased her about her technique, and Aurora laughed again—freely this time. It was light, unguarded… something she hadn’t done in years.
For once, the shadows in her eyes didn’t seem so heavy.
Then, the laughter faltered slightly when the room fell quiet.
The maids straightened almost instantly, their gazes flicking toward the doorway.
Damien stood there, silent as ever, arms folded, his dark eyes locked on Aurora.
The air shifted.
Aurora blinke
