"Thank you, Zoe," I said quietly. "Thank you for being my friend."
"Don't be silly," she smiled warmly. "We are friends. The lasting kind. Now, try this cake—they make it absolutely divine here."
I returned to the manor at four o'clock. Walking into the foyer with my shopping bags, Darya informed me dinner would be at six and suggested I rest in my room first.
I took a long shower and changed into a simple dress—Kholod had finally abandoned his silk fixation. The dresses he'd been selecting lately were all cotton, exactly as I preferred.
Standing before the mirror, arranging my hair, I noticed the color in my cheeks and the brightness in my eyes. I felt genuinely happy. When I was with Zoe, I could temporarily forget all the oppression and pain, simply be an ordinary girl who loved painting and traveling.
Perhaps this was what true friendship meant—no need for defensiveness or second-guessing, just being together naturally, sharing happiness and sorrow.
And Isabella...
Thinking about that brief silence on the phone stirred complicated feelings. We'd been friends since childhood—she'd been there for me through the darkest period after Father's death. But since my marriage to Kholod, everything had been subtly shifting. I understood her love of luxury, but I'd never imagined it would transform her into someone so... unfamiliar.
Maybe this, too, was part of growing up—learning to distinguish who was truly worth trusting.
"Ma'am, dinner is served," Darya announced from my doorway.
"I'll be right there."
Today, Kholod had miraculously arrived punctually for dinner. The staff filed in, presenting course after course of elegant dishes. The first was French onion soup, its aroma filling the air.
I politely tasted a spoonful, then grimaced slightly. Far too muchthyme—that overpowering herb made my stomach turn. But I said nothing, simply set down my spoon and waited for the next course.
"Replace her soup." Kholod's voice cut through the quiet, calm but brooking no argument.
Everyone froze.
The staff exchanged bewildered glances, unclear about what had transpired.
"Sir, is there an issue with the soup?" the chef inquired cautiously.
"She doesn't like it." Kholod didn't even glance at the offending bowl, stating matter-of-factly, "Bring her a clear broth instead."
I gaped at him in astonishment. How could he possibly know I disliked the flavor? I hadn't uttered a word.
Anya's spoon remained suspended mid-air as she stared at us in disbelief, then silently resumed eating. Anastasia lowered her napkin, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips.
Within five minutes, a bowl of simple chicken broth seasoned only with salt and pepper appeared before me. Its clean, delicate fragrance was exactly what I loved.
"Thank you," I murmured.
Kholod made no response, simply continued with his meal as if what had just occurred was perfectly routine.
Dinner proceeded in a peculiar atmosphere. Kholod maintained his impassive expression, but I noticed he barely touched his own food, spending most of the time observing whether I was eating properly.
The second course was pan-seared cod with asparagus, the third roasted lamb, the fourth dessert—raspberry mousse. Each dish was exquisite and delicious. For once, I had a genuine appetite and ate more than usual. I caught the corner of Kholod's mouth twitching upward almost imperceptibly.
After dinner, Kholod departed first.
"Noelle," Anastasia called to me. "Walk with me a moment."
I followed her to her private sitting room. Though I'd been here before, I was still struck by the refined décor. Classical oil paintings adorned the walls, while the shelves held leather-bound volumes. Afire crackled in the fireplace, and the air carried hints of sandalwood.
She gestured for me to sit, then settled gracefully on the opposite sofa with her tea.
"Your work in the collection room has been exemplary," she began. "Far exceeding my expectations. You're both patient and meticulous. The cataloging of those pieces is flawless—I couldn't find fault if I tried."
