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When I reach the far end, my fingers graze a roll of silk, its texture cool to the touch, the hue a vivid sea-blue.

Like Sebastian’s eyes.

I close my own and rest my palm on the fabric, fighting the ache. Willing myself not to break into a pile of fresh pieces. With measured breaths, I mentally chant three words until nothing’s left but static between my ears…

Healing takes time.

So I take the time, even though deep down, I fear I’ll never find that girl again—the one who dreams and creates and designs.

I start by doodling curved lines at my drawing table, pausing now and then to stare out the window. The skies are clear today, the sun’s bright rays encouraging a symphony of birds.

As I return to my doodling, I’m taken aback by the direction those lazy lines took. It almost looks like the beginning of a gown with a royal train.

For some reason, that makes me laugh.

Because if this archaic system is going to force me into a marriage, I might as well become the spectacle everyone’s expecting.

I’m still giggling like a deranged hyena, the vacant room mocking me, when the door creaks open again, softer this time.

The laughter dies in my chest.

Elise pauses on the threshold, bundled in a silver cardigan that strains at the buttons. Her figure is fuller now, with the baby’s arrival not far off.

“I wasn’t sure if I should knock.” The uncertainty in her features stings, because she’s usually so optimistic.

“You’re always welcome.”

She steps inside before shutting the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you at the memorial, but…”

“No, it’s okay. I was a mess.” Truth is, I barely remember that afternoon, let alone picking out faces in the blur, even familiar ones.

“It’s good to see you working again,” she says, taking in the room. Grime clings to the corners, gathering near a trail of bobby pins and half-buried thread.

“I’m not sure I’d call what I’m doing working, but I’m trying.”

“It’s a good start.”

“How have you been?” I ask, nudging us in a safer direction. “How’s the baby?”

“I’m fine. Baby’s good.” She looks at me then with an unspoken intensity that says more than her words do. “How are you doing?”

“Better.” Though the answer catches in my throat. “As long as I focus on the present.”

She nods, choosing not to push, then sinks into the chair across from me with a small wince, one hand settling on her midsection. “How are things with Oliver? Is he treating you well?”

My gaze strays, and for a moment, it’s not Oliver’s shadow I recall, but the sound of his footsteps retreating. Just last night, his longing lingered in the air, heavy with need, while I tried to escape through sleep.

“Novalee?”

I return to the conversation, but she’s already leaning forward, spotting something I didn’t mean to stitch into my expression.

“He’s not hurting you, is he?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s…” I trail off, my pencil gliding into the silhouette of a plunging bodice that bares more than it hides. “He’s getting under my skin.”

Her brows lift over wide blue eyes. “How’s he getting under your skin?”

“In a physical way.”