The Nagasaki estate buzzed with motion.
Servants hustled across the marble floors, trays in hand, earpieces clipped, and voices hushed but urgent. Steam wafted from the kitchen down the hall — someone had shouted for imported Darjeeling five minutes ago, and someone else nearly tripped on a rack of garment bags that spanned the entire corridor.
It was barely ten in the morning, but the manor was a symphony of clacking heels, clattering dishes, and the frantic rustle of couture fabrics being unpacked, pressed, or whisked away by handlers like sacred relics.
Wynter watched all of this from her usual spot by the window, curled on a velvet chaise with her tea slowly going cold beside her.
Keith had told her, "Don't worry about anything, kotik. Just rest today. Let the chaos exist without you. I already arranged everything else for you."
Easy for him to say. He had a full security team, three assistants, and the luxury of caffeine.
