The dew clung to the rose leaves like a hundred tiny mirrors, catching the soft morning light that spilled over the east hedges. The Burnett estate, so often bustling with staff and appointments and curated noise, was utterly still. The hush of early morning wrapped the garden in a velvet sort of silence—comfortable, undisturbed.

Sophie stepped onto the paved garden path, soft ballet flats brushing the damp stones. A pale cashmere robe was cinched loosely at her waist. Her hair was swept into a low knot, wisps curling at her temples from sleep. She held a ceramic cup between her hands, steam rising slowly from the black tea inside. The...