The double doors to the ballroom swung open, unleashing a blast of saxophone music and the scent of expensive perfume.
Aria stepped into the light, her arm looped tightly through Grandfather Sinclair's. She was beaming—a smile so bright and triumphant it could have powered the estate for a week. Beside her, Grandfather Sinclair looked like he was being marched to a guillotine, his face a mask of stiff, aristocratic misery.
"Smile, Grandpa," Aria whispered through her teeth, waving at a cluster of board members with her free hand. "Everyone is watching. You don't want them to think you're unhappy, do you? It might affect the stock price."
Grandfather Sinclair forced the corners of his mouth upward. It looked painful.
"You are a menace," he muttered.
"I'm a delight," Aria corrected.
They descended the short staircase into the crowd. The reaction was immediate. The room rippled with whispers.
