The noise of the reception faded behind ornate glass doors. Roses bloomed unnaturally in the frost-drenched air beyond the windows—ether-imbued and cruelly perfect.
Rosaline moved like a shadow in silk, her gloved fingers brushing the edge of an antique credenza as if admiring the grain. Her hair was pinned, her perfume subtle—sweet and sharp, like crushed petals over venom. She stood just close enough to Delphina to whisper without being overheard.
"You did the right thing," Rosaline murmured, her voice warm and silk-smooth. "Lady Patricia was always too loud. Too quick to claim victory before the pieces were in place."
Lady Delphina Roseroth, a widow, socialite, and mother to a painfully beautiful omega with soft curls and a sweeter disposition, nodded, but her eyes remained sharp. Watchful. Her fingers clutched her fan a little too tightly.
"She's not done," Delphina said. "Women like Lay Patricia never go quietly. If she falls, she drags others down with her."
