LIAM'S POV The house feels like a held breath. I move through the cool, silent halls of the Finch mansion, every sense stretched taut. Clara’s silence is a weapon, and she wields it with a surgeon’s precision. I’ve spent the day waiting for the other shoe to drop—a confrontation, an icy lecture, a legal threat. Nothing comes. It’s worse.I find myself in the kitchen, seeking the simple, grounding smell of coffee. Marta is there, polishing silverware at the large farmhouse sink, humming softly.“Evening, Mr. Thorne,” she says, not looking up from a stubborn spot on a fork.“Marta.” I lean against the island, the granite cold through my shirt. “Quiet tonight.”“Oh, it’ll be quieter still,” she replies amiably. “Miss Maya’s gone out for the evening. Very nice of Mrs. Finch to arrange it. That’s real generosity.”The words land like a physical blow to my sternum. I force my breathing to stay even. “Arrange it?”“Mmm-hmm.” Marta holds the fork up to the light, satisfied. “A reservation at
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