The fire in Eleanor's private sitting room crackled like it was trying to tell secrets. Seraphina curled deeper into the leather armchair that had probably been expensive when Victoria was still on the throne, watching Damon's grandmother move around the room with the careful precision of someone whose bones remembered being ninety-three but whose spirit refused to acknowledge it.
Three weeks had passed since the Fortune Magazine announcement hit the stands. Three weeks of interview requests, partnership offers, and what felt like half the business world suddenly wanting to be Seraphina's best friend. Three weeks of Victor's increasingly desperate attempts to find leverage against Silverstone Industries.
And three weeks of Eleanor watching everything with those sharp gray eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail for some purpose she hadn't shared yet.
