The Blake mansion wore celebration the way it wore everything else, expensively and without warmth.
White orchids lined the corridors, their fragrance muted beneath polished marble and centuries of restrained arrogance. Staff moved quietly, efficiently, as though joy were something that might spill if handled carelessly. Outside, the city buzzed with anticipation. Inside, the walls listened.
Evelyn Blake stood before the full-length mirror in her private dressing room, silk draped over one arm, velvet over the other.
She had dismissed the maids.
Not because she didn't need them, but because she didn't need witnesses.
