“Vivian, you’re using the wrong fork. The Lancasters were taught better than to treat a salad like a main course.”

Emelia Aldridge’s voice was like a thin shard of ice—transparent, sharp, and capable of drawing blood before you even felt the sting. She sat at the head of the long, mahogany dining table, her posture so rigid it seemed as though her spine were made of tempered steel. Even in the privacy of the mansion, she wore a suit that cost more than my father’s house, and her eyes—those cold, calculating grey eyes—never stopped dissecting me.

I froze, my hand hovering over the silver-plated fork. My heart hammered against my...