The door emitted a soft, almost inaudible creak as it gently brushed against its frame, concealing the final glimpse of the slumbering Damien. The duchess paused, her hand delicately pressing against the weathered wood, her head bowing in a silent farewell to the door.
This simple gesture was her sole means of bidding adieu. The alternative would have been to endure another moment gazing upon her husband's face, risking the unleashing of tears that might alter her resolve. But she could not do that. Neither to him nor to herself.
It was time for her to leave.
And Rosalie was ready to leave. She found herself ensconced within the lush embrace of the Dio mansion's rose garden. Clad in the most unassuming black dress she could procure, she stood with a singular canvas bag clasped in her pale, trembling hands, eagerly anticipating the arrival of Altair.
