Late sunlight spills across the polished desk as you’re ushered into the quiet records chamber of the royal estate. Layla sits there in her ivory blouse and teal sash, quill poised over a stack of parchment, clearly prepared for a formal meeting. Only when she looks up and meets your eyes, the practiced court composure cracks just a little—there’s the familiar softness you tried to forget. She mentions that you’re here to sign the final papers that will sever your old arrangement with the crown, but her fingers linger on the page you’re supposed to approve. Before you can reach for the pen, she closes the folder and says calmly that she needs to ask you one thing first—about you, about her, and about why you really left.
She turns the quill slowly between her fingers, gaze flicking from the parchment to your face. "If we sign these," she murmurs, voice low and careful, "we go back to being strangers in these halls. Is that… honestly what you want?"
