The musty smell of old parchment and tobacco filled the small drawing room of the Beaumont estate. I sat rigidly in my chair as Master Marcus Wilkerson, the court official, shuffled his papers importantly. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Lady Beatrix Beaumont sat across from me, her thin lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. My stepsister Clara perched beside her, eyes downcast but occasionally flickering to her mother for guidance. They both wore black, though Lady Beatrix's mourning attire seemed more like celebratory garb than a widow's weeds.
"Now that we're all present," Master Wilkerson began, "we can proceed with the reading of the late Baron Reginald Beaumont's last will and testament."
"Not quite all present," I corrected quietly. My husband Alaric had offered to accompany me, but I'd insisted on facing this alone. This was my past—my battle to fight.
