eminence, MONET DE HAAN

FORTY THREE.

The garden was unfairly beautiful.

Wisteria-draped trellises cast moving shadows across the freshly cut grass. A soft breeze stirred the white linen curtains flowing from the poolside cabana. The koi pond bubbled somewhere off to the left.

And in the center of it all, on a blush-toned yoga mat?

Adelaide Kingsley. In a backless sports bra and matching leggings that fit like sin and second skin.

Monet was dying.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

She was actively, visibly dying—choking on her smoothie from the second-floor balcony while trying not to faceplant into her mother's hydrangeas.

Down below, Adelaide was deep into a pigeon pose, face serene, curls tied into a loose bun, golden skin gleaming with just the right sheen of exertion.

"Namaste, my ass," Monet muttered.

Beside her, Camille sipped her espresso, robe billowing, sunglasses perched perfectly. "Sweetheart, if you're going to spy, at least do it with better posture."

Monet didn't flinch. "She's doing it on purpose."

Camille hummed in agreement. "Of course she is. And she's excellent at it. That ankle extension? Divine. She's been watching YouTube tutorials."

Monet groaned. "Why are you letting this happen?"

"Letting?" Camille raised a brow. "I invited her. Told her the backyard was hers anytime. I even got her a silk yoga mat."

"You're feeding the enemy."

"No, darling. I'm letting the enemy humble you. There's a difference."

Monet's jaw clenched as Adelaide shifted into a seated twist, spine perfect, gaze unbothered.

"She hasn't let me touch her in weeks." Monet hissed. "And now she's doing yoga in my backyard. Where am I supposed to look?!"

Camille patted her shoulder. "That's between you and your self-control, love."

Down below, Adelaide turned just slightly.

Caught Monet's eye.

Held it.

Smiled—so sweet it was cruel.

Then arched into a slow, unbothered cat-cow stretch like she wasn't rewiring Monet's entire central nervous system.

Camille stood. "I'm going to bring her lemon water. You, on the other hand, should consider cold plunging. Or therapy."

Monet didn't answer.

She was too busy gripping the balcony railing like it owed her answers.

Because Camille was right.

This wasn't punishment.

It was poetry.

And Adelaide Kingsley was composing her own masterpiece.

----

Adelaide had just slipped into her fifth sun salutation when Monet appeared.

Not silently, not casually—deliberately.

She was in a cropped navy workout tank and matching leggings, hair twisted up with effort and drama. Her gold water bottle sparkled like a trophy in her hand, and her expression said one thing: