CHAPTER 10: The Daughter Under the Chandelier

Near dawn, the rain began outside Vistion Hall.
It tapped softly against the open doors while staff returned to their stations, uncertain but relieved to hear Lena’s voice giving calm instructions.
Charles was moved to a chair in the library with a blanket over his knees. He hated the blanket. Lena let him hate it.
Some dignity was recovered by refusing small comforts.
Celeste stood at the threshold with her coat over one arm, no glass, no son beside her, no papers left to hold.
The security director waited near the door.
“Am I being thrown out?” she asked.
Lena looked at the staircase, the marble, the balcony where Celeste had watched Charles struggle below her.
“No,” she said. “You are being escorted out of a property you tried to steal.”
Celeste’s lips parted, but no answer came.
Charles called from the library, his voice rough but steady.
“Lena.”
She turned.
He held out his hand.
For one second, she was not the emergency chair of anything. She was only a daughter crossing the marble toward her father.
The chandelier burned above them, bright and unforgiving.
This time, no one was crawling beneath it.