A few days had passed, and the once-quiet halls of Kyle's mansion were now filled with the soft clinking of cutlery against fine porcelain. The long dining table glowed beneath the warm chandelier, its golden light reflecting off polished silverware and crystal glasses. The air carried the faint aroma of carefully prepared dishes, rich and comforting—yet beneath it lingered an unspoken tension, delicate and restrained.
Yvienna sat beside Kyle.
He had been the one to carry her earlier, his movements gentle and practiced, carefully placing her onto the wheelchair and adjusting it so she would be comfortable. Even now, his presence remained close—steady, protective, as if he were anchoring her to the moment.
On Yvienna's other side sat her parents. Her father, Bastien, looked healthier than he had in a long time, color slowly returning to his face. Beside him was her mother, Meg, composed as ever, her expression calm yet sharp, her eyes observant.
