Usually with Magnus Olsen’s signature at the bottom.
Rosette set down the glass and walked into the dressing area.
Gowns hung from rolling racks. Resort dresses. Linen sets. Silk evening wear. Shoes already paired with bags. Jewelry cases open under precise hands.
Her life, arranged by other people.
By late afternoon, a knock came from the bedroom door.
Garette Slone stepped only as far as the threshold, his gaze politely away from the open dressing area.
He was in his late fifties, though everything about him still looked built for response rather than rest. Tall, controlled, gray at the temples, quiet in a way that never felt empty. He wore a dark suit without looking as if he belonged to the suit. Security had always been something he carried in his bones, not something he wore on his lapel.
Chief of Family Security.
To Rosette, he was the only person in the house who had ever taught her how to fall without breaking.
“Mrs. Olsen.”
“Garette,” Elara said. “Is everything ready?”
“The air terminal has confirmed the departure window. Mr. Olsen’s aviation team is ready.”
Rosette turned from the clothing rack.
“Only the aviation team?”
“For now.”
“For now,” she repeated. “Comforting.”
One of the assistants made the mistake of smiling.
Elara gave Rosette a look. “Rowee.”
“What? I’m awake now. This is what you wanted.”
Garette’s expression remained unreadable, but his eyes held the faintest trace of amusement.
Rosette saw it.
She always saw it.
He had once told her that the smallest shift in a person’s face could save her life.
She had been fifteen then, furious at the world, bruised along one shoulder from failing to break a hold properly. Garette had stood over her in the old gym behind the east wing and said, Pain is information. So is fear. Stop treating them like enemies.
At the time, she had hated him for it.