Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"I will find you. In the burning cities. In the lost islands. Among stars fallen and dust."
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My sandals brushed against the floor as we moved past towering portraits of dead Lancasters who all looked permanently disappointed in me.
Since when do guests get access to me?
Guests in this house usually meant men discussing stocks, politics, power, or some charity daddy wanted his name attached to.
It never meant me.
Maybe Uncle Nicholas came back already.
But he'd left barely three days ago.
Uncle Archi then?
No. He is buried in his launch facility in France.
Then who?
The closer we got, the quieter the corridor became. No laughter. No casual chatter.
The double doors stood closed, guarded by two staffs who bowed slightly as we approached. One of them pushed the door open, the hinges moving silently, like the house itself had learned not to make noise unless permitted.
Music drifted out-Violins. Piano. Something elegant and mournful. The smell of fresh pastries followed. That faint bitter scent of Earl Grey that always meant pompous visitors.
And then the room opened up.
Everyone was seated mid-conversation, bodies angled toward one another, voices low but animated. Servants stood like statues along the walls, silver trays balanced effortlessly in their gloved hands. The long table in the centre was dressed in delicate china and neatly aligned desserts that looked too pretty to eat.
Daddy and Mama occupied the chesterfield, close enough to appear united, distant enough to tell the truth. Daddy's ankle rested neatly over his knee, hands relaxed on the armrest like he was carved there. Mama was beside him, arms folded, expression distant, the kind of bored elegance she wore whenever guests bored her soul but etiquette forced her body to stay.
Opposite them were three people I didn't recognise immediately but somehow already disliked.
The man had a presence that filled the space with authority that rivalled Daddy's. The woman beside him glittered, wrapped in gemstones that caught the light with every small movement, a teacup balanced between manicured fingers.
And then there was a younger man.
Okay... maybe not young. Max's age, or slightly older.
He sat on the center couch alone, legs slightly apart, gaze roaming across the walls, the artwork, the servants, the ceiling mouldings, like a man mentally adding up numbers in a bank account.
Before I could process anything else, his eyes landed on Miss Sigrid.
She stepped forward, bending slightly as she poured more tea into his cup.
