Adrian strode out of his study without another word. His steps echoed down the hall, purposeful. He soon arrived in front of Estelle's door. His boots struck the stone in a steady, deliberate rhythm, each step echoing down the empty corridor like a countdown. He didn’t knock when he reached her door. He didn’t announce himself. He simply pushed it open like usual. The room was warm. Firelight spilled across the marble floor in restless gold, catching on the edges of furniture and the glass vials lined on her windowsill. Estelle stood by the hearth, her profile turned toward the flames, one hand resting lightly on the mantel. She looked composed. She looked untouchable. She turned at the sound, swift and sharp, her eyes narrowing the instant they landed on him. For a fraction of a second, something unguarded crossed her face—surprise, maybe, or the ghost of an emotion she refused to name. Then the mask slid back into place. “What now?” she asked flatly while tilting her head to
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