The dining room was silent, save for the ragged, synchronized breathing of the two women on the floor.
Alex stood over them, hands on his hips, surveying the wreckage.
It looked like a bomb had gone off. Chairs were askew. The table runner was pulled half-off. Silverware was scattered. And in the center of it all, the Vanderbilt dynasty lay in a tangled, sweaty heap.
Helena was draped over Vivienne's back, her face buried in her cousin's hair, one arm hanging limp. Vivienne was flattened beneath her, cheek pressed against the Persian rug, eyes glazed and staring at nothing.
They looked less like high-society power players and more like shipwreck survivors.
[DING!!]
The sound chimed clearly in Alex's mind, cutting through the heavy, musk-filled silence of the dining room.
He didn't flinch. He just watched the golden text shimmer into existence at the edge of his vision, illuminating the dim room with a spectral glow that only he could see.
