Windsor, Late December
The dawn came quiet and cold, as if the city itself hesitated to breathe. Snow blanketed the streets like a shroud; chimney smoke rose in thin, uncertain threads against a pewter sky. In the quiet townhouse on the outskirts — The Nest — the world felt impossibly still.
Charlton Daniel stood by the window, already dressed, the collar of his dark coat turned up against the chill. Behind him, the fire had burned low, its glow soft against the muted gold of Serena's hair where she slept beneath the quilts.
He hadn't meant to wake early. But the weight of this day would not let him rest.
For the first time in years, his mind was clear — no longer driven by revenge, but something sharper, something new. Purpose.
He turned slightly, his eyes tracing her silhouette — her face serene, though faint shadows lingered under her eyes. The lamplight caught her features gently: the high cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips. She looked peaceful. Trusting.
