Lily stirred in her carrier, letting out a soft, warm sigh against my collarbone.

“A man like Adrian does not accept defeat,” Grace said. “He destroys the board.”

The car turned sharply onto 74th Street.

The Whitmore townhouse stood like a limestone fortress against the dark sky.

Its black iron railings were slick with the cold rain.

Grace pushed her door open before the driver could get out to assist us.

“Keep the engine running,” she told him.

We walked up the stone steps, my boots slipping slightly on the wet granite.

Grace did not use the knocker; she pressed her thumb firmly against the brass intercom button.

A moment later, the heavy oak door clicked and swung inward.

Margaret’s butler, an elderly man named Thomas, looked at us with a pale, neutral face.

“Mrs. Whitmore is in the study,” he said, stepping aside.

He did not ask why we were there, nor did he look at the baby in my arms.

The hallway smelled of expensive beeswax and old paper.

We walked past the oil portraits of Adrian’s ancestors, their painted eyes staring down at us.