At Arthur de Molay’s residence, a sprawling villa near the Bois de Boulogne, Marie had already laid out a traditional four-course dinner on the heavy oak table.
Arthur and Adelaide had returned together. The moment they stepped through the threshold, Madame Claire hurried to the kitchen to signal Marie to serve the pot-au-feu. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of red wine and unspoken suspicion.
Sitting at the table as Marie ladled out the soup, Arthur de Molay looked at Elodie with a paternal, yet calculating concern.
"Elodie, dear," he began, his voice smooth as silk. "Were you frightened today?"
Elodie hummed softly, her youthful face clouded with a pout. She shot a sharp glare at Arthur. "It’s fine, I suppose. But Uncle..."
She leaned forward, her voice rising in indignation
