Late January, frost still laced the railings of The Nest.
Windsor had not seen anticipation like this in years.
Every major paper carried the same headline:
"Lady Serena Maxwell to Speak: The Crown's Fallen Rose Breaks Her Silence."
By two o'clock, the street outside The Nest was lined with carriages and flashing bulbs. Reporters stood shoulder to shoulder, boots stamping against the cold. They whispered among themselves — what would she say? Would she beg forgiveness, confess, accuse?
No one knew.
But they all came.
Inside, the room was bright but spare, a single arrangement of white roses on the table, a gesture of composure.
Serena sat poised, her gown deep green silk that seemed to draw the warmth of the firelight.
There were no servants, no formalities. She wanted no distance between herself and the world she was about to face.
