Margaret arrived at two PM with a leather portfolio and an expression that suggested she'd seen a thousand women try and fail at being Alexander Knight's wife.
Elena was in her suite when Margaret knocked. She'd spent the morning painting—something she hadn't done since moving into the penthouse.
The fractured mirror series continued on canvas, each piece darker than the last. Broken things pouring light. Light escaping from wounds.
"We have much to discuss," Margaret said without preamble.
They moved to the living room. Margaret arranged papers on the glass coffee table like she was setting up a war strategy. Because that's what this was—strategy. Performance. Warfare disguised as marriage.
"The Harrington Gala is Friday," Margaret said. "Seven PM. It's New York's most exclusive cha
