Eleanor descended the grand sweeping staircase, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. She reached the vast, echoey estate foyer and stopped at the antique console table.
A stack of thick, cream-colored envelopes rested on a silver tray.
Clara stepped up beside her, silently handing Eleanor a silver letter opener shaped like a miniature dagger.
Eleanor took it. Her fingers lightly brushed over the expensive paper. She sliced open the first envelope. Heavy gold-leaf lettering caught the light. It was from Cordelia Kensington.
Eleanor scanned the Kensington charity gala invitation. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the ostentatious display of wealth. It was tacky.
"Julian Beaumont was seen at the St. Regis downtown last night," Clara informed her, her voice low. "With your stepsister, Isabelle. The paparazzi got photos."
Clara watched Eleanor's face, expecting a flash of anger, a tightening of the jaw.
Eleanor merely hummed. Her heart rate did not spike. Her stomach did not twist. She tossed the Kensington invitation onto the 'accept' pile without a single flinch.
She picked up the second envelope. This one bore the formidable, dark red wax seal of Camilla Beaumont, Julian's stepmother and the true power behind the Beaumont political machine.
Eleanor sliced it open. It was a VIP pass to the Beaumont political fundraiser. A handwritten note at the bottom specifically requested Eleanor's solo attendance.
Footsteps echoed from the top of the staircase.
Lillian Sinclair descended. She wore a flowing designer morning gown that cost more than a car. She projected a sickeningly sweet, fake maternal warmth.
Lillian paused halfway down the stairs. Her eyes darted immediately to the broken red wax seal of the Beaumont family in Eleanor's hand. A sharp flash of raw jealousy twisted Lillian's features before she smoothed it away.
Lillian hurried down the rest of the steps. She reached the marble table, stretching her hand out to snatch the Beaumont invitation. "Let me help you organize those, darling."
Eleanor's hand moved faster. She slammed two fingers down on the envelope, pinning it hard against the marble.
Lillian's fingers stopped an inch away. She looked up, her fake smile straining at the corners.
"I was thinking," Lillian forced a light laugh, "that Isabelle should attend the Beaumont gala this weekend. You've been so stressed lately, Eleanor. You look exhausted."
Eleanor looked directly into Lillian's eyes. Her gaze was flat and dead.
"Camilla Beaumont requested a Sinclair," Eleanor stated coldly. "Not a charity case."
Lillian's face flushed dark red. The insult hit her like a physical blow. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so hard into the palms of her hands that the skin turned white.
Lillian quickly pivoted, her voice dripping with venom. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't show your face anyway. Given the rumors about Julian. It's so embarrassing for you, Eleanor. He clearly prefers Isabelle."
Lillian waited for the emotional breakdown. She wanted to see Eleanor insecure, crying over her cheating fiancé.
"Julian's lowbrow extracurricular activities in luxury hotel suites are entirely irrelevant," Eleanor replied calmly. She didn't blink. "As long as the Beaumont political donations clear into the Senatorial trust, he can sleep with whoever he wants."
Lillian was momentarily stunned. Her mouth opened slightly. The sheer, cold pragmatism of the statement short-circuited her brain. She realized, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that she could not use emotional manipulation on a woman who felt no emotion for the man she was marrying.
Eleanor pulled the invitation out from under her fingers and handed it to Clara.
"Arrange a fitting for a bespoke gown," Eleanor ordered. "Something dark. Suitable for camera flashes."
Lillian's chest heaved. "I will tell your father about this. I will tell Robert that you are being uncooperative and hostile to your own family."
Eleanor turned her head slowly. "Do that. And while you have his attention, remind him that his campaign trust is up for my grandmother's review next week. It would be a shame if your monthly allowance was suddenly reallocated to a super PAC."
Lillian took a physical step back. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes widened as the threat landed. She realized Eleanor wasn't just throwing insults; she held actual, devastating financial leverage.
Eleanor turned her back on Lillian entirely. She dismissed the woman's presence as if Lillian were a piece of broken furniture cluttering the hallway.
Clara stepped forward, handing Eleanor the tablet. The screen displayed a grainy paparazzi photo of Julian and Isabelle slipping into the side entrance of the St. Regis.
"Should I have our contacts suppress it?" Clara asked.
Eleanor swiped the tablet screen, enlarging the photo. "No. Let the tabloids run it. Boost the algorithm. I want a public narrative built that Isabelle is a home-wrecking parasite."
Clara smirked slightly. She understood the strategy perfectly. She pulled out her own phone and sent a quick text to their media fixers.
Eleanor checked her heavy Patek Philippe watch. The cold metal against her wrist was a grounding sensation. "I have a scheduled meeting with Genevieve in fifteen minutes."
Lillian, humiliated, ignored, and stripped of her power, let out a frustrated noise. She turned sharply and retreated up the stairs, her heels stomping angrily against the marble.
"Double the security detail around my private quarters," Eleanor instructed Clara, not even looking up as Lillian fled. "Lillian is desperate. Desperate people do stupid things."
Eleanor picked up her tablet. She began preparing her mental arguments for the matriarch. She turned away from the foyer and walked toward the heavy French doors that led to the private gardens.
