“Your mother was a quiet girl from West Virginia, Emily.”

“She didn’t ask for much, just enough money to buy that little house for her family.”

I felt a cold sweat break out along my spine.

The mahogany walls of the study seemed to press in on me.

“So…” I whispered, the word sticking to my dry tongue.

“Nathan and I…”

“Do not flatter yourself, girl,” Eleanor interrupted, her eyes finally snapping to mine.

“You are not of our blood.”

Nathan stepped between us, shielding me from her gaze.

“What are you saying, Mother?” he demanded.

“If Arthur is her father, and he is my father—”

“Arthur is not your father,” Eleanor said.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Outside, a heavy branch scraped against the windowpane as the wind picked up.

Nathan stared at her, his jaw dropping slightly.

“What?” he breathed.

Eleanor sighed, a delicate, irritated sound.

She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a small silver case, sliding a slim cigarette between her fingers.

She did not light it; she just held it, tapping it against the armrest.