Reynand and Elara sat across from each other on the settee. Elara was still quietly sobbing, gently wiping her tear-stained cheeks with the handkerchief Reynand had given her.
"What's her name again?" Reynand asked, his voice low, his gaze darkening beneath furrowed brows.
"Agatha, Your Grace." Elara's eyes stayed fixed on her lap.
"Why didn't you mention it in your letters?"
Elara bit the inside of her lip, fingers tightening around the silk fabric in her hand.
"Did you… even read my letters?"
Reynand's gaze sharpened. She wouldn't meet his eyes.
Even though they had shared only one passionate night in the four years of their marriage, Reynand could still sense the shift in her tone.
The awkward distance, the lingering fear of him—it was still there. But now, it was laced with something new, a sliver of boldness.
