The wineglass in Sofia's hand had long gone warm, untouched. Her midnight gown—once the symbol of elegance and composure—now clung to her like regret, like the weight of knowing she would never be enough. The photograph lay on the coffee table, defiant in its stillness, the past staring up at her through frozen laughter and the glow in Adam's younger eyes.
Tristan returned from the kitchen with a glass of water, pausing a second before placing it gently beside her.
"You okay?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Sofia didn't look at him. Her voice was barely audible. "No."
"Are they engaged?" She asked when she couldn't help herself.
"Adam was supposed to marry Beatrice," Tristan began, his voice low, as if the past still haunted him. "That was the plan from the beginning. Everyone expected it—two legacy families, old money, reputation. On paper, it was perfect."