Then the emergency floodlights hummed to life, casting a dull, crimson glow over the silver cutlery and the pale faces around the table.

“Do not move,” Alexander said.

His voice was a low growl in the shadow.

“Alexander, she did this,” Celeste hissed, her fingers clawing at the edge of the mahogany table.

“The power failure, the car at the gate—it is all her doing.”

She pointed a manicured finger directly at my chest, her diamond rings catching the red emergency light.

“She is a thief who has spent months forging your dead wife’s handwriting.”

“She wants to secure her place in this dynasty, and she will kill us all to get it.”

“She wants to take what belongs to us.”

Vivian pulled her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn.

“Get your guards to throw her out, Alexander,” Vivian demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

“She is a common servant.”

“She has no right to stand in this room, let alone speak of Eleanor.”

Alexander did not look at Vivian.

He did not look at Celeste.