The sunlight spilling through the tall glass windows of the east wing turned the polished marble floor into liquid gold.
The Thompson mansion looked every bit the palace it claimed to be, with shadows of the chandeliers stretching long like skeletal fingers across the velvet furniture.
On one of those velvet couches, Laila reclined with perfect poise, a porcelain cup of tea balanced delicately in her hand.
The faint fragrance of bergamot and honey curled in the air, softening her sharp presence.
Across from her, Victoria twirled, her silk robe swaying around her knees like the skirt of a ballerina, bare feet whispering against the marble.
"Mother," she sang out, her voice pitched in that spoiled, lilting way that always made Laila's lips curve with indulgence. "Do you think Roman will be here tonight? At Lisa's party?"
Laila's eyes softened at her only daughter—the jewel she had polished and protected since birth. "Of course, darling. He never misses Lisa's events. Why?"
