The west wing always felt different at night. Even within the same house, the divide was clear.
The east wing was full of life—the soft voice of Lily from the twins' rooms earlier in the evening, the gentle sounds of staff finishing their duties, doors closing quietly. The west wing was quiet. Fewer rooms. Fewer movements. A space designed for order and focus, free of interruptions.
Franz's bedroom door was closed. Arianne stood outside it longer than necessary.
The corridor lights were dimmed, casting long shadows on the polished floor. Behind the door, she heard the rustle of fabric, the soft click of a suitcase handle. He was packing. As expected.
They did not share this space. It had never been formally discussed, but the divide between east and west had remained intact.
