In Firefly Lane, Rhaegar waited.
Three days passed.
Then another three.
She never came.
Those he had sent in secret to watch over her returned with word—she had claimed illness, and had not stepped beyond her courtyard even once.
"My lord… perhaps Lady Caelith truly is unwell," Lance offered carefully.
Unwell?
Then why had she sent no message? Why not even a single word?
Rhaegar sat alone in his study, his gaze fixed upon the pear tree beyond the window.
Its blossoms had long since fallen. Bare branches swayed faintly in the night wind, stripped of their former grace.
His thoughts drifted to the letter he had sent—and, for the first time, regret stirred.
He had meant to force her hand, to compel her to come.
Yet now, it seemed she had resolved not to see him at all.
What had happened?
Had she grown angry with him?
That day… what had Iasabella Tanmin said to her?
He remained there through the night, never once closing his eyes.
