The first joke lands before the wine is poured.
“I have to say,” Aunt Lillian laughs lightly, folding her napkin across her lap, “it’s so nice to see you looking… settled, Evelyn.”
The word drifts across the long mahogany table like perfume—sweet, suffocating.
Evelyn smiles on cue.
“Thank you,” she says, voice even. “I’ve been prioritizing calm.”
Julian glances at her from the head of the table, approval flickering briefly in his eyes. The dining room glows in low amber light, portraits of Crowe patriarchs lining the walls like witnesses. Seating is precise: Julian at one end, his mother at the other, legacy anchoring both sides. Evelyn sits at Julian’s right hand, positioned as extension.
She arrived ten minutes early. Perfect posture. Neutral dress. No visible armor—only polish.
“
