“There he is,” a distant uncle murmured from a corner, swirling his scotch.

“The heir.”

I had been to this house perhaps a dozen times in eight years of marriage, always as a guest who was tolerated rather than welcomed, and I knew its language.

I knew that when an Ashgrave complimented your dress it was a way of noting it wasn’t expensive; that when they asked about your work it was to establish that you had to work; that the warmth was a currency they spent carefully and expected repaid in deference.

But this was different.