By the next evening, the whispers had grown louder. Servants paused when she walked past, their eyes glinting with judgment, tongues dripping poison planted by his son. She could feel the weight of their stares, the smirk of satisfaction on the boy’s lips every time their eyes met.
It almost amused her. Almost.
Instead of shrinking, she made herself brighter. That night, she walked into the estate’s grand lounge wearing silk the colour of spilt wine, every movement deliberate, every glance calculated. She knew his father would be there, entertaining associates, and more importantly—his son would be watching.
“Gentlemen,” she purred as she entered, all conversation halting. She leaned lightly against the back of her lover’s chair, her manicured nails tracing the edge of his shoulder with
