The morning sun spilled through the ornate windows of the Thorne family's breakfast room, casting long shadows across the elegant table. Lady Rowena Thorne delicately sliced into a piece of fruit, her posture rigid even in the privacy of her home. Across from her, her husband Lysander pushed food around his plate with obvious disinterest.
"You're not eating," Lady Rowena observed, her tone clipped. "The dinner party at Lord Ashworth's is tonight. I won't have you claiming illness to avoid it."
Lysander sighed. "I have no intention of feigning illness, Rowena. I simply have no appetite this morning."
"Well, find one," she snapped. "We've declined three invitations this month already. People are beginning to talk."
"Let them talk," Lysander muttered.
Lady Rowena's eyes flashed. "That's precisely the attitude that's brought this family to ruin. Our son married that—that masked creature, and now we're forced to pretend she's worthy of the Thorne name."
