The Moreau mansion looked almost theatrical in the morning light. The grand dining hall glowed with soft amber hues, the sun spilling through tall arched windows draped in ivory lace. Dust motes shimmered like faint gold specks in the air, floating above the vast mahogany table that could easily seat twenty people. The scent of roasted coffee, freshly baked croissants, and buttered truffles mingled with something distinctly floral — white lilies that stood proudly in a crystal vase at the center of the table.
Caroline had expected something stiff and overly formal, but this—this was pure performance. Every silver utensil sparkled, every plate was perfectly aligned, and even the folded napkins were shaped like roses.
