CHAPTER 3: The Man Through the Glass Doors

The stranger did not enter like a guest.
He carried no umbrella, no apology, and no expression meant to comfort the people who had been comfortable only seconds earlier.
He paused at the threshold until every face in the dining room turned toward him. Rain glistened on the shoulders of his coat. Behind him, the terrace lanterns burned against the black windows, framing him like a witness arriving late but certain.
Celeste’s expression changed before anyone else understood why.
“Edward,” she said.
Mr. Edward Whitaker removed his gloves slowly. He had been August Hart’s private attorney for twenty-six years, though most of the family had met him only at weddings, funerals, and moments when a signature could move millions.
“Mrs. Hart,” he replied.
His voice was polite, but it carried enough weight to move the servants back from the walls.
Preston rose halfway from his chair. “This is a private dinner.”
Whitaker looked at the red folder beside Isabella’s plate.
“No,” he said. “It appears to be an attempted transfer of estate control.”
No one touched their glasses after that.
Celeste’s hand closed around the back of her chair.
Isabella remained standing, her cheek pink, her eyes fixed on the briefcase.