Elara sat on the edge of the bed and brushed the hair away from her daughter’s face with the same tenderness she had used when Rosette was five and hiding from piano lessons.
“Rowee.”
Rosette stirred.
She did not open her eyes. Instead, she shifted closer, rested her head on Elara’s lap, and wrapped one arm loosely around her mother’s waist as if she were still a child hiding from school, etiquette lessons, charity luncheons, and every room where Magnus Olsen expected her to behave.
Elara smiled despite herself.
She ran her fingers through Rosette’s hair, slow and gentle.
For a few seconds, she allowed the lie.
No schedule.
No family name.
No private plane waiting at the air terminal.
No carefully arranged cruise.
No men speaking of legacy as if daughters were signatures waiting to happen.
“Rowee,” Elara murmured, softer now. “We leave for the air terminal at seven tonight, and you still have not decided what to wear or what to bring.”
Rosette opened one eye.
Then closed it again.
“Mom,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “it’s a cruise. I can wear anything.”
“A Mediterranean cruise,” Elara corrected.
Rosette buried her face deeper against her mother’s lap.
“Same floating prison. Different rich people.”
Elara sighed, but there was a smile hidden in it. “That is exactly why we need to prepare.”
Rosette groaned.
“We also have an appointment with the stylist,” Elara added. “Hair, skin recovery, fitting options. Rapid restoration.”
“I didn’t lose a war,” Rosette muttered. “The nightclub surrendered.”
“No doubt.”
A soft sound of amusement escaped Rosette without her opening her eyes.
For one brief moment, she was only a daughter being spoiled by her mother.
Then Elara’s hand slowed in her hair.
“And there is one more thing.”