The St. James mansion always felt colder in the mornings. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the breakfast room, but it lacked warmth. It was a clinical, blinding light that reflected off the polished silver and the white linen tablecloth.
My mother, Catherine Eleanor St. James, sat at the head of the table, her spine a straight line of uncompromising iron. She wasn't eating; she was reviewing digital spreadsheets on a tablet, the soft blue glow of the screen illuminating the sharp, beautiful angles of her face.
I sat across from her, the eggs on my plate untouched, the coffee in my cup turning cold. The silence was a weight, a familiar pressure I had lived with since I was a child.
"The Sterling merger is moving into Phase Four," she said, not looking up. Her
