The Rosamund estate's garden was bathed in the soft glow of twilight, the last rays of the sun casting long shadows among the blooming flowers. Lady Eveline Rosamund sat alone at the ornate wrought-iron table, the air filled with the scent of roses and the distant sound of a nightingale's song. Her delicate fingers traced the rim of her teacup, her mind far away.

Her husband had returned from yet another grueling campaign only hours ago. Their marriage, once a mere political arrangement, had grown complicated over the past two years. Eveline had always maintained a composed and distant demeanor, fearing vulnerability and the perceived weakness it might bring. Yet, beneath that exterior, she secretly longed for the warmth and affection she had never dared to seek openly.

Footsteps on the gravel path brought her back to the present. She looked up to see him approaching, his silhouette framed by the fading light. He moved with the practiced grace of a soldier, but Eveline noticed the slight stiffness in his gait, a subtle sign of injury. Concern flickered in her chest, but she kept her expression neutral. She stood up.

"Welcome back," she greeted him, her voice steady. "I thought you might like some tea. Have a seat."