(Yvette POV)
The suitcase lay open on the bed, its dark lining unwrinkled, waiting.
This manor was quiet in a way that felt intentional—not the heavy silence of a house full of memories, but the calm of a space that belonged solely to me. I had moved here at the start of the one-year term, telling myself it was temporary.
Somehow, it had become home.
I folded my clothes carefully, stacking them with a precision that came from habit rather than nerves. Neutral colors. Practical silhouettes. Clothing chosen for comfort and function, not expectation.
There was no rush.
At the bottom of the suitcase, I placed my knife roll.
The leather was warm from my hands, familiar in a way nothing else was. I unrolled it slowly, inspecting each blade out of reflex. They gleamed softly under the bedside lamp.
These weren't symbols of ambition.
They were proof.
Proof that something in my life belonged to me long before power ever did.
