The music still hummed faintly from the ballroom, but Kya had slipped into the quieter corridor near the study. She found her father, Patrick Byrd, speaking with two advisors, his tone sharp as ever. When they left, she approached, her voice steady but edged with curiosity.
“Dad,” she began, folding her arms. “Why didn’t Mr. Whitmore come tonight? He was supposed to be here.”
Patrick’s expression hardened, though his eyes flickered with something softer. “Reginald Whitmore is not a man who misses events lightly. But his health… it’s failing him. He sent his regrets.”
Before Kya could reply, the sound of footsteps drew her attention. Mrs. Gray, elegant in a midnight‑blue gown, approached with Mr. Gray at her side. Their presence carried weight—the kind of quiet authority that silenced wh
