Vivienne LeCrox entered Silver Crest like a woman returning to a throne.
That was her first mistake.
A throne recognized its queen.
This house had already chosen.
Not fully. Not loudly. Not with banners or declarations. But in the small ways that mattered. Mrs. Albright’s shoulders had lowered when I entered the kitchen. The guards had begun reporting directly to me without glancing around first. The children waved from the courtyard. The staff ate warm meals. Widows received their stipends. Danica followed me around like commentary in heels.
Vivienne did not know that.
She saw marble, portraits, staircases, and Darius.
She thought those were the house.
Poor thing.
“Your luggage,” I said, glancing toward the driver behind her. “How optimistic.”
Vivienne’s smile did not break, but
