Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, soft and golden, spilling across the rumpled silk sheets. Somewhere beyond the glass, the estate was already waking up—gardeners tending the hedges, the faint scent of fresh espresso drifting up from the kitchen below.

The bed itself was a battlefield of tangled limbs and stolen warmth. On one side, a broad shoulder and a mess of jet-black hair half-buried under a pillow. On the other, a sliver of golden-blond hair and the slow, steady rise and fall of a sleeping chest.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 AM.

It was Tuesday. Quiet for now, but it wouldn't stay that way long.