Delilah’s POV
I had planned this moment down to the heartbeat. Not early enough to look overeager, not late enough to risk being forgotten. A silver pot, two porcelain cups, and a plate of spiced pastries, the sugar dusted just enough to look like I hadn’t thought too hard about it—though I had. I carried the tray myself. A servant would make it seem routine. I wanted him to see me.
When the doors opened, I stepped into the scent of paper and ink and the echo of finished arguments. Vincent sat behind the desk, dusk running a bronze thumb along his jaw. Myra was perched on his knee, her small fingers in the fabric at his wrist like she was tethering him to earth. Her presence startled me for half a breath, the way a bird flicks past the window and steals your attention even when you meant
