“Any more, and the swelling would obscure her vision to the point where she couldn’t hold the pen.

Any less, and she might still cling to that pathetic, bourgeois defiance.”

Preston lounged on the white leather sofa, wiping a microscopic speck of Lily’s blood from the immaculate sleeve of his custom Tom Ford tuxedo.

He laughed, a dry, callous sound, and poured himself another glass. “She’s weak, Mother. Incredibly sentimental. She’s been in that bathroom for twenty minutes, crying her eyes out.

She’ll sign the condo over just to make the pain stop. We flip the property, we pay off the debt, and I play the tragically grieving widower who lost his fragile bride to mental illness by Christmas.”

“Patience, darling,” Beatrice murmured, taking a slow sip. “Let the terror marinate. She has nowhere to go. We hold all the cards.”

They thought they’d cornered a frightened rabbit in a gilded cage. They had no earthly idea they’d just walked blindfolded into a dragon’s den, covered in the scent of its own blood.