“The south wing needs to be prepared,” Julian said, his tone turning businesslike and cold.

“Vanessa will be arriving tomorrow morning.”

I saw Margaret’s jaw tighten slightly, though her expression remained carefully neutral.

“Of course, Mr. Mercer,” Margaret said. “We will begin the preparations today.”

Julian nodded, picked up his glass, and walked out through the double doors toward his private study.

Once he was gone, Margaret turned to me, her eyes sharp and warning.

“You were lucky just now, Claire,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper.

“I was terrified,” I admitted, pulling Emma close to my side and feeling the metal of the pocket watch against my thigh.

“You should be,” Margaret said, walking over to the table to straighten a silver fork that was slightly out of line.

“Mr. Mercer has a soft spot for the child, but that will not protect you from his fiancée.”

“Vanessa Whitmore?” I asked.

I had seen her pictures in the society papers back in the city.

She was beautiful, blonde, and came from one of the oldest, wealthiest families in Chicago.