Chapter 2 — Not Tonight

Thatcher stepped into the hall, adjusting a cufflink, his tuxedo jacket sitting perfectly on his shoulders. My husband was handsome in the polished way men from old families are trained to be — straight posture, controlled movements, a smile he could switch on in any room.

He looked at me, then at the blanket in my arms, and for one brief second I waited for him to be Sabina’s father before he was Beatrix’s son.

He didn’t.

“Vivian,” he said, already sounding tired. “Not tonight.”

I almost laughed. “Your daughter has a 104-degree fever.”

His frown showed irritation, not fear. “Then give her the medicine in her bag and let her rest upstairs. My uncle will be here soon. We need the night to go smoothly.”