Chapter 18. The Echo

By dawn, the villa felt drained of warmth. Not in temperature—the pale morning sun still washed the marble floors in gentle gold and made the glass walls glow—but in mood. It was as if something sacred had been touched the night before, and now the entire house held its breath, waiting for a verdict. Corridors that usually hummed with life lay silent; even the echoes of footsteps seemed subdued.

In the kitchen, the staff moved like ghosts, heads bowed, voices hushed to whispers. Silver trays slid across granite countertops with soft clinks that sounded too loud in the quiet. Evelyn carried breakfast into the sunroom without a word, balancing plates of fresh berries, warm croissants, and farm-fresh eggs. The steam curled lazily upward, but she did not smile, did not glance toward the glowing terrace doors. There would be no mention of the gala. No acknowledgment of the kiss.

Above the breakfast table, a flatscreen had been turned on—volume low, images rolling.

“Wol