Don turned his head the moment the voice echoed through the marble hall.
From the base of the staircases, his eyes lifted upward—and there she was.
Miss Claire stood poised at the top landing, framed by the sweep of carved banisters and the glow of chandeliers. She wore a black evening dress, trimmed with gold along its lines, the cut accentuating her figure with deliberate restraint rather than indulgence. Lace leggings traced faint patterns down her legs, vanishing neatly into black heels.
Around her neck sat a string of pearls, balanced by other touches of jewelry that didn't overwhelm but instead sharpened the ensemble—a faint shimmer of rings, a thin gold bracelet. A small black purse hung easily from her hand.
Her hair had been styled straight, falling like dark silk to her shoulders, without the rigid sculpting that often accompanied formal attire. Effortless, but deliberate.
The light above caught her at all the right angles.
