Vivienne's voice slipped out before she even thought of the weight it carried.
"Mother."
The word landed heavier than it should have, dragging silence behind it.
Damien felt her hand tense just slightly on his arm. That was all—the tiniest shift. But for Vivienne Elford, whose every breath and glance was calibrated into elegance, that slight tightening spoke louder than any gasp could have.
The woman sitting at the far end of the table tilted her head faintly, pale eyes catching the chandelier light and reflecting it like cold gemstones. She didn't rise. She didn't need to. Presence alone bent the room toward her.
"Daughter," she said.
Her voice was low, smooth, and carried the kind of resonance that slipped past the ears and went straight to the bones. It was not commanding—not overtly. Yet it carried an intimacy that disarmed, an old familiarity that made Vivienne's chest tighten even as her mind bristled.
