The jeweler's salon was more than a shop—it was a sanctum. Hidden along a narrow Mayfair street, where the cobblestones still carried the faint polish of centuries of carriages, it seemed almost carved out of time itself. The brass handle of the door gleamed as though it had never known a fingerprint. Inside, crystal chandeliers poured down pale light, softening against velvet drapes that muted the outside world to a hush. The air carried a faint sweetness of polished wood and old perfume, the sort of scent that whispered of discretion.

In glass cases, jewels lay like sleeping royalty. Diamonds winked like shards of frozen stars; sapphires glowed as though veins of fire were trapped within; gold curled itself into settings that seemed too delicate to hold such weight. These were not ornaments but testaments—proof of lineage, of wealth, of promises whispered in salons centuries ago.

Thomas moved among them with the slow composure of a man accustomed to the gravity of his presence. Tall, shoulders squared beneath the tailored precision of his black three-piece suit, he looked as though he belonged among these treasures—polished, immaculate, almost untouchable. His cufflinks caught the light with every subtle movement. His shoes gave off the faintest gleam, echoing softly against the paneled floor. Everything about him radiated control, but within, he carried the quiet strain of a man who bore the weight of perfection as both armor and chain.

The manager approached, her steps noiseless over the thick carpet. She was graceful in the way of those trained for discretion, her voice gentle, her smile composed. "Are you searching for something in particular, Mr. Cabot?"

His reply was immediate, polite, honed smooth by years of being expected to answer with poise.

"A necklace. For my wife."

The woman's smile warmed. "Ah, Mrs. Cabot. I hope she is well?"

"She is." His nod was crisp, measured. The sort of answer that revealed nothing yet sounded like enough.

"Perhaps something from our newest collection," she suggested, steering him toward a display. Diamonds rested there like dew on silver branches, restrained yet dazzling. "Silver-gold settings, with fine diamond accents. Elegant. Discreet. Just like Mrs. Cabot herself."

Thomas's lips curved into the faintest smile. He let his gaze move slowly across the selection, though his eye had already caught on one piece. A slender chain of silver-gold, delicate enough to appear fragile, but anchored by a sapphire the color of storm-tossed seas, glowing as though a flame were trapped inside. He raised a finger, the motion precise, final.

"This one."

The manager's smile deepened, dimples hollowing her cheeks. She did not ask again—when a Cabot decided, it was already done.

By the time Thomas stepped back into the evening, the necklace was his. The sun was lowering behind London's skyline, casting the ancient city in shades of copper and shadow. The air smelled faintly of rain, though the sky had not broken. His chauffeur was waiting at the curb, head bent in wordless acknowledgment as he opened the door for him.

Inside the car, Thomas exhaled slowly, watching the familiar city slide past in blurred streaks against tinted glass. London, eternal and unchanging, a place that wrapped him as tightly as a noose. Every street, every façade carried the weight of his inheritance—Cabot blood, Cabot duty, Cabot perfection. He had been born into a story already written, and the role was his to perform without flaw.

His phone vibrated, a discreet pulse in his pocket. He unlocked it with the complex code that only he knew, and the message appeared on the screen:

"I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Cabot, for this weekend. It was the best of my life. See you at work. – Denisse"

His thumb hovered, his eyes narrowing. Reckless. Foolish. And yet—dangerously flattering. He deleted it in an instant, leaving no trace.

Denisse West. He could picture her even now: her eyeliner sharp as blades, her hair unruly, her laughter loud and disobedient. She wore heels like weapons, skirts that whispered trouble, perfume that clung to his skin long after she was gone. She was the opposite of his wife in every way. Wild where she was serene. Reckless where she was graceful. A temptation he should have resisted—but hadn't.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and his mind betrayed him with a different image: the summer sun slanting through the branches of the great oak on the family estate. His wife, then just a girl, hair gilded by light, eyes alive with laughter. He had confessed to her there, awkward and earnest, and she had smiled, the kind of smile that could unmake a boy and turn him into a man.

That was real. That was love. That was what mattered.

And yet, even love could stifle when surrounded by perfection. She had given up everything for him—her career, her ambitions, her independence—to become his wife, his anchor, the quiet heart of their home. She baked bread with her own hands when the staff would have done it for her. She had built a life around him, around his name.

She was perfect. Too perfect. And sometimes, perfection pressed down on him like velvet wrapped too tightly around his throat.

"Stop at the flower shop," he ordered suddenly, his voice steady, low. "Buy the largest bouquet of roses they have."

The chauffeur inclined his head. No questions, no hesitation. Cabots were obeyed.

By the time the car drew up to the family estate, twilight had fallen. The house loomed, vast and cold against the darkening sky, its windows like watchful eyes. But the moment Thomas stepped through the door, warmth enveloped him. The air smelled of sugar, of butter, of something golden browning in the oven. She must be baking again.

Almost without thinking, he checked himself. His tie, his collar, the faint trace of cologne. No perfume clung to him. No lipstick smudge betrayed him. He smelled only of himself, of control. Immaculate. Untouched. She never needed to know. He would protect her from it. He loved her more than anything—more than his own weakness, more than the thrill of betrayal.

Straightening his tie, he gathered the roses in one hand, the velvet box in the other. His footsteps echoed against marble floors, past portraits of their life together. Their wedding day—her smile radiant. The gala at Claridge's—her gown luminous under chandeliers. The newspaper clippings—The Perfect Couple, London's Golden Pair. Every frame seemed to follow him, their flawless faces carved into permanence.

The kitchen door glowed with golden light. He paused, drawing a breath, before stepping inside. She was there, as always, sleeves rolled, hair pinned loosely, her hands working at the counter. She looked up at him, and there it was—the same smile that had undone him at seventeen.

Thomas's chest tightened. He had everything. Everything a man could want. And still, some part of him wanted more.

He stepped forward, masking the ache beneath charm, bouquet raised, the velvet box gleaming like a promise in his hand.

"Hello, love," he said softly, a smile warming his aristocratic composure. "I'm back."