The grand chandelier above the Moreau estate's entrance hall glowed with amber light, scattering across polished marble floors and gilded railings. The air smelled faintly of aged oak and roses, the kind of scent that clung to old wealth and whispered legacies. Evening shadows stretched long against the velvet curtains, their folds heavy with the weight of family secrets.
And then she appeared.
Descending the sweeping staircase with a venomous smile curved across her lips, a woman emerged like poison wrapped in beauty. She was draped in a gown of pale silver silk that clung to her figure, every step calculated, deliberate, as though she were gliding rather than walking. Her manicured fingers were tightly clasped around the hand of a small boy dark-haired, solemn-eyed his presence only intensifying the sting of her arrival.
Her gaze fixed immediately on Lucien.
