The morning began quietly, too quietly for New York.

Rain tapped against the windows in a soft, uncertain rhythm, the kind that makes the city hold its breath. Violet sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass calm, collected, but somewhere deep inside, the waves hadn’t stilled.

She had faced Charles Hawthorne and walked away stronger. She had forgiven the unforgivable. Yet peace, she was learning, didn’t always arrive without a test.

Bryan entered the kitchen, still half-asleep, his hair tousled and his shirt only halfway buttoned. “You’re up early,” he murmured,...