PHOENIX IN PRADA
— NATHALIE —
The Ashford estate felt like a mausoleum for a dynasty that hadn't realized it was dead yet.
Everything in it was beautiful and slightly too cold — decorated to impress rather than to live in, every surface saying money and nothing saying home. I had grown up in Clara's memories of warmth and chaos and a father who stole food off Daniel's plate. Walking into the Ashford drawing room felt like stepping into a photograph of a life rather than a life itself.
Victoria was already seated when I was shown in. Holding a physical copy of the Financial Times, the sustainability fraud headline in bold black ink. She had clearly been holding it for exactly the right moment.
She looked up when I entered and something moved behind her eyes — surprise, quickly buried.
