It was a very beautiful morning. Too beautiful, honestly.
The kind of morning that shouldn't exist after a night like that.
The air smelled like spring flowers and warm pastries. The sky glowed soft blue with a lazy rainbow stretching over the Rosseau chateau like some divine joke. Servants were already up, dusting the marble floors, wiping gold vases, polishing candle stands until they shone like glass. Everything was calm, proper, elegant.
Except for one particular room—the Duke's lounge.
That place was pure disaster.
The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight spilling over the velvet floor like spilled milk. André's jacket lay in a crumpled heap. Her corset hung off the chair like a strangled snake. A shoe had somehow ended up on the table beside a broken glass, and there were clothes in places clothes should never be. It looked like a war zone, but with more moaning.
