At the Anderson estate, the echoes of the banquet had not yet faded.
The grand hall was a graveyard of half-empty glasses and scattered plates. Guests lingered in small clusters, their laughter and the clink of crystal forming a blurred, dissonant background noise. But Beverly heard none of it. She stood by the grand entrance, her face a mask of frantic distraction.
A girl—one of those social climbers who had recently tethered herself to Beverly’s newfound status—sidled up to her with a sycophantic grin. "What’s wrong? Looking for Adrian? He only stepped out for a moment, and you’re already this pining?"
It was a standard social jab, a way to tease the woman currently at the center of the pack’s orbit. Ordinarily, Beverly would have preened, her vanity soaring at the mere mention of his
