The Château Voss loomed under a moonless sky, its Haussmann spires piercing the velvet night like accusatory fingers, ivy-clad walls a shroud over the grieving within.
Victor's death had rippled outward at dusk. A terse hospital bulletin followed by Vivian's orchestrated calls, drawing the family like moths to a funeral pyre.
The grand salon, once alive with opulent soirées under crystal chandeliers and Gobelins tapestries, now festered in dim lamplight, heavy with lilies' scent and the faint bite of spilled cognac.
Velvet armchairs sagged with sorrow, Persian rugs muffling footsteps, a maid hovering to refill glasses with unsteady hands.
Vivian held court on the settee, her black lace gown a widow's armor, face carved with performative grief, diamonds cold against her collarbone.
