The silence in Kensington House was a physical weight, pressing down on Serena's chest until it felt impossible to breathe.
It had been three days since the ball. Three days since the music ended and the whispering began. Three days since she had stood on the terrace and felt the phantom weight of her sins crashing down on her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floorboards. It was past three in the morning. Beside her, Geoffrey slept—or at least, he lay still. He had barely slept since they returned to the capital. Even in repose, the lines of exhaustion were etched deep into his face, a map of the burdens he carried solely for her sake.
She looked at him, her heart twisting with a love that felt more like a wound. He was the Crown Prince. He was the future King. He was a man of honor, of duty, of infinite patience.
And she was the anchor tied around his ankles, dragging him down into the crushing dark.
