A small, wicked smile curved her lips.
"Harold believes he's shielding family honor." She tilted her head, savoring the absurdity. "How quaint. How touching."
The smile sharpened.
"Almost makes me want to send him a thank-you note. With a little bow on top."
Her face remained hidden.
Dramatic? Absolutely. But when you were this wealthy, theatrical mystery wasn't vanity—it was brand management. You didn't owe the room your expression until you decided the lighting was flattering enough.
"He'll be here," she said softly, voice suddenly warm where it had been liquid nitrogen with Harold. Because Harold was a useful idiot, and useful idiots got the ice-queen special: frostbite delivery, no cream, no sugar. "Tomorrow. My sweet child."
A movement behind her.
Then—
"Really?!"
Elena Ashford burst across the room like a twelve-year-old on Christmas morning—if that twelve-year-old had a wardrobe that could bankrupt a small nation, a trust fund larger than most countries' GDPs.
