After wrapping up an early morning call with his overseas associates, Sebastian Harper descended from the private study tucked on the third floor.
It wasn't originally his space—it belonged to Aurora. A vast, sun-drenched room lined with shelves of rare books and filled with antique furniture.
Every piece in that room whispered of her—precise, timeless, quietly powerful.
She had offered it to him, temporarily, when he needed somewhere private for his international calls.
He hadn't asked, but she handed him the key in passing, like it was a simple gesture. It wasn't.
Sebastian never commented on how it smelled faintly of lavender and old ink, or how the silence there helped him focus more than any of his own offices ever did.
His shirt was still crisp from the night before, and his voice carried the last tones of foreign negotiations.
As he walked down the quiet hallway towards the kitchen, the soft creak of the front door caught his attention.
Bishop.
