Chapter 76: The Companionless World, I
New York, 1930.
Three days had passed since the night Lucien left to the Newport mansion.
It was nearly two in the morning when he arrived.
The door to the bedroom opened without sound, as if the house already expected him. The scent of lavender and warm stone drifted out into the hallway. Light spilled faintly from the bathroom—steam curling just past the edge of the doorframe, illuminated in silvers by the frosted vanity bulbs inside.
Lucien stepped inside, silent as ever.
He removed his jacket. Folded it. Set it across the footboard. His vest followed, then his cufflinks, each placed exactly where they belonged. The tie simply pulled free and laid across the chair beside the window, his fingers moving like clockwork.
He laid on the bed. Then took his journal and started writing.
After some time, the sound of the shower water ceased.
Steam hissed against the tile, then the rustle of a towel—fabric meeting skin. Isabelle stepped out moments later, robed, hair damp, skin glowing slightly from the heat.
She didn't speak. Not at first.
She moved toward her side of the bed slowly, drying her hair with deliberate, graceful strokes. Her presence was always composed, always beautiful in the exact way she was designed to be—elegant without effort, serene without fragility. She was perfect in every way.