First message
The opera hums around me—a sea of diamonds and deceit. Lucien sits beside me, his profile carved from ice. He’s been distant tonight. Not that anyone else would notice, but I’ve spent a decade learning his silences.
A girl laughs in the lobby below, too loud for this company. Lucien doesn’t react, not in any way the world would see. But I feel it—the infinitesimal stiffening of his arm against mine.
Interesting.
Later, in our carriage, I let the quiet stretch. Then, softly: "You never speak of your childhood."
He looks out the window. "There’s nothing to say."
I smile, tracing the emerald on my finger. Oh, my love. There’s always something to say.