Eleanor sat rigidly at the head of the grand oak dining table, her hands folded delicately in her lap. The chandelier above cast golden light over the polished silverware, the scent of rosemary and roasted lamb filling the air. Laughter and idle chatter swirled around her. yet she barely heard a word. Her gaze rested on the wine in her glass—deep crimson, swirling gently with every slight tremor of her fingers.

She smiled when appropriate, nodded when expected, and even let out the occasional soft chuckle at a well-timed joke from her brother. No one noticed the way her nails dug into the fabric of her dress beneath the table. No one saw the tension bracing her shoulders or the way her throat constricted every time she swallowed.

Across from her, her mother adjusted the pearls around her neck, oblivious. “You’ve been quiet tonight, Eleanor,” she mused, sipping delicately from her glass.

Eleanor’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. How could she possibly explain? How could she tell them that, inside, she was screaming? That the man they were all toasting—the one whose face was printed in the newspaper headlines as a _tragic accident_—wasn’t just a business associate or a friend of the family? That he was hers? That she had loved him in secret And now, he was gone.

Instead, she exhaled a practiced breath and forced a smile. “Just tired, Mother.”

Her father lifted his glass, his voice booming. “To Charles—an incredible man and a loss to us all.”

The crystal glasses chimed together, a hollow, empty sound in Eleanor’s ears. She lifted her own and took a sip, trying to steady her breath.

Then, the butler entered with a silver tray, setting a letter beside Eleanor’s plate. Her heart clenched as she recognized the handwriting.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the parchment, her breath catching in her throat.

_“Meet me. Tonight. The terrace.”_

Eleanor’s pulse pounded. It was impossible. **Charles was dead.**

And yet, his handwriting was unmistakable.