By the time noon arrived, the house no longer resembled a place where a baby had spat up on the drapes four days ago.
Windstone had summoned the subtle chaos of the elite domestic arts; cushions were straightened into diplomatic alignment, windows polished until the world outside looked like a curated exhibit, and the foyer now smelled faintly of cedarwood and guiltless wealth. The scent blend had been engineered by a palace perfumer with a degree in olfactory politics and a vendetta against lemon.
Lucas, no longer in bed but not entirely upright either, was seated in the sunken lounge with Sebastian in his lap and a throw blanket that looked suspiciously designer-made tucked around them both. He wore soft tailored loungewear, the kind that whispered wealth and whispered even louder that you had earned the right to be comfortable.
