Rosalind Aldridge sat at the dark rosewood desk by the window, a crystal glass of amber sherry next to a pile of heavy cream envelopes.

She held a silver pen and was carefully writing out formal dinner invitations in black calligraphy.

“You’re back early, Vivian,” she said without lifting her head.

Her index fingernail rapped four quick times on the polished edge of the desk.

“I dropped off lunch at Spencer’s office,” I said, standing by the leather armchair across from her.

“Spencer doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working on quarterly corporate allocations,” Rosalind said, capping her pen with a firm snap.

“I ran into Brielle in his suite,” I said.