The morning light reflected through the curtain linen, painting the breakfast table in strokes of soft gold. The aroma of toast and freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air, filling the quiet dining room with a kind of warmth.

Isabelle descended the stairs with featherlight steps. She’d slept well—mostly. Except for the few times she’d woken up remembering a certain silver bookmark gleaming under the lamplight.

She pressed her lips together, as if to chase the thought away.

When ...