I did not get any sleep since last night—Gioffre was lying in my bed, his steady, untroubled breathing a stark contrast to the tumult inside me.
Instead of resting, I found myself hunched over the stacks of reports Abelard had entrusted me with. The meticulous details and frustrating numbers mingled with my jangled thoughts, especially knowing that tonight's event was reserved for couples and lovers alone.
With no expectation for my participation in such frivolities, I resolved to use this quiet interval for rest; my body, battered by endless tension and aching with truth, deserved a brief respite.
I pressed my focus to every careful scribble on paper, determined to sort through the tangled data. Just then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a subtle motion.
Gioffre, already roused and self-aware in his own way, had shifted his position and now sat upright on the edge of the bed. His soft-spoken greeting—"Good day, Your Grace"—emerged from the quiet.
