The days following Ryan's departure for the northern estate settled into a new, quiet, and intensely focused routine. The Thompson manor, now firmly under Marissa's control, ran with a silent, precision. The terror she had instilled in the staff had evolved into an efficient respect. She was not a cruel mistress, they were learning, but she was a strict one. She did not tolerate lies, she did not tolerate laziness, and she saw everything.
Marissa, for her part, was working. She sat on her private balcony, a place that had become her open-air office, the warm afternoon sun on her face. Before her, on a sturdy table, were not flowers or tea, but a mountain of paper.
Mrs. Alma, the Dowager's former proxy, stood beside her, her posture stiff, her face a mask of neutral deference. She had accepted her new position as Marissa's second-in-command with a grudging, but total, surrender. She placed another heavy, leather-bound ledger on the growing stack.
