"You came back?"

Brooke came down the stairs slowly.

Each step was measured.

Her silk robe had been exchanged for a pale cashmere wrap.

Her hair was perfect.

Her expression was warm and slightly puzzled, as though she had simply woken to find a pleasant surprise.

"I thought your flight wasn't until Monday," she said.

"It wasn't." Dominic stood at the base of the staircase with his hands in his coat pockets.

He hadn't moved toward her.

"Plans changed."

"You should have called." She reached the bottom step and touched his arm.

"I would have had breakfast ready."

"Emma was already handling it."

Something crossed Brooke's face.

Gone before it fully arrived.

"Of course." She smiled.

"Emma is very reliable."

"She is."

Brooke tilted her head.

"You look tired.

Come sit down.

I'll have coffee brought up."

"I've had coffee."

She studied him.

The warmth in her expression didn't waver, but her eyes were working — reading him, measuring the distance between what he was saying and what he knew.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Should something be wrong?"

"Dominic." A small laugh.

"You're standing in the entrance hall at six in the morning looking at me like I've done something terrible.

What is it?"

"I ran into Natalie on my way in."

The laugh stopped.

"She seemed upset," he said.

"Natalie has been struggling." Brooke's voice shifted — softer now, careful.

"She's still grieving.

Some mornings are harder than others.

I've been doing my best to give her space while also trying to help her understand that after Saturday, certain things will need to change."

"What kinds of things?"

"Practical things.

Household things." She moved toward the sitting room.

"Come.

Let's not stand in the hall."

Dominic didn't follow.

"She showed me a document," he said.

Brooke stopped walking.

"A residency agreement." His voice was even.

Completely even.

"Asking her to permanently waive Noah's claim to the east cottage."

Brooke turned around.

The warmth was still there, but it had hardened slightly at the edges, the way ice does before it cracks.

"That document was a draft," she said.

"Something my attorney suggested as a formality.

I hadn't even decided whether to use it."

"Your attorney."

"Yes."

"At five in the morning."

"I was reviewing it privately.

I didn't expect Natalie to—"

"To what?

To read it?"

"To misunderstand it." Brooke stepped back toward him.

Her voice dropped into something gentler, more intimate.

"Dominic.

That cottage has been sitting empty for two years.

I was simply trying to create a clear structure for the household going forward.

I should have discussed it with you first.

I see that now.

That was my mistake."

She put her hand on his chest.

"I love having Natalie here.

I love Noah.

You know that."

Dominic looked down at her hand.

He didn't move it.

He didn't cover it.

He simply looked at it the way a man looks at something he is deciding how to categorize.

"Tell me about Marcus," he said.

Her hand went still against his chest.

"What about him?"

"He's been making offers on the coastal properties.

Through shell companies."

"Marcus runs a development firm.

He makes offers on a lot of things."

"Three offers, Brooke.

Three separate holding companies.

All turned down."

"I don't control what my brother does with his business."

"No." Dominic finally moved her hand, gently, and stepped back.

"But I'd like to understand why the woman I'm about to marry has been quietly pressuring my widowed sister to sign away trust property that my brother-in-law's estate lawyers would need to review — four days before a wedding that would give her legal standing in this household."

The silence that followed was different from the ones before it.

Brooke let it sit for three full seconds.

Then she smiled — and this time the smile was different.

Smaller.

Cooler.

"You've been home for less than an hour," she said, "and you're already conducting an interrogation."

"I'm asking questions."

"You're accusing me."

"I haven't accused you of anything."

"Your tone accuses me." She crossed her arms.

"I've spent six months making this household run.

I've managed the staff, the schedules, the caterers, the wedding arrangements — everything.

And you walk in before sunrise and the first thing you do is treat me like a suspect."

"Brooke—"

"No." Her voice rose slightly.

Controlled, but sharp.

"I deserve better than this.

After everything I've done for this family."

Dominic watched her.

She was good.

He had always known she was good.

But he had spent the last forty minutes standing behind a door listening to her shatter a porcelain cup onto a maid's shoes and threaten to evict a nine-year-old boy from his grandmother's home.

And now she was standing in front of him with wounded eyes and her arms crossed like the injured party.

"You're right," he said.

Brooke blinked.

"You've worked hard.

I should have been here more." He nodded slowly.

"Why don't you get some rest.

We'll talk properly at breakfast."

The wounded expression softened back into warmth.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"That's all I needed to hear."

She touched his cheek once, then turned and went back up the stairs.

Dominic watched her go.