The air in Charles Sterling’s office was the temperature of a tomb. He stood behind his vast desk, not sitting, a sign of supreme agitation. The architectural blog article was printed and laid before him like an indictment. Liam stood near the window, a brooding silhouette. Evelyn sat in the client chair, posture perfect, her hands folded calmly in her lap, a bastion of composure she did not feel. The queasy flutter in her stomach was constant now, a live wire of anxiety and biology.
“This,” Charles said, tapping the paper with one manicured finger, “is a goddamn disaster. A lineage? A family drama? We sell excellence, not soap operas.” His glare shifted to Liam. “You failed to disclose a material conflict of interest.”
“My father’s unsentimental thirty-year-old sketch is not a conflict,
