Chapter 3
The continuous action of the evening flowed seamlessly into its most critical moment. The room remained bright and clearly illuminated, the warm golden light reflecting off the gilded mirrors and marble columns, creating a rich, opulent atmosphere free of any dark or dull tones. The low arrangements of cream roses filled the air with a soft, sweet perfume, masking the scent of betrayal that lingered near the head table.
Greta stepped smoothly beside Eleanor’s ivory upholstered chair. With her slender figure moving in perfect, practiced elegance, she carefully placed the gold-rimmed dessert plate directly before the elderly matriarch.
"Thank you, my dear," Eleanor whispered, her voice a quiet, fragile breath that barely disturbed the air.
As Greta began to pull her hands away, she noticed a profound shift in the older woman's demeanor. Eleanor did not reach for her silver dessert spoon. Instead, she slowly turned her body toward Soren. Her frail, fair hands moved to her lap, her fingers tightening noticeably around the crisp white fabric of her damask napkin. Her knuckles turned white from the pressure. It was the physical manifestation of a woman desperately gathering every ounce of her remaining courage to speak a dangerous truth.
Greta froze, her expressive brows lifting slightly. She remained standing just behind Eleanor's shoulder, her heart suddenly hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She knew exactly what Eleanor was about to do. The batteries were fresh. The matriarch had heard everything.
Before Eleanor could part her lips, before Soren could register the sudden tension radiating from his mother, Daphne noticed the movement.
From her position standing opposite the table, the fiancée’s sharp eyes caught the tightening of Eleanor's hands. Daphne’s fair, rosy skin flushed slightly with a mixture of annoyance and superiority. She could not allow the elderly woman to interrupt the flawless aesthetic of the memorial dinner with incomprehensible babble.
"Are we finding the dessert to our liking, Mother?" Soren asked, his cold eyes shifting from his plate to the frail woman beside him, sensing her sudden, rigid posture.
Eleanor opened her mouth, her breath hitching audibly in the bright, luminous space.
But Daphne was faster. She stepped slightly forward, the diamonds on her ears catching the cascading light of the crystal chandeliers. She leaned across the table, aggressively inserting herself into the intimate space between mother and son.
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"Oh, Soren, darling, don't bother," Daphne interrupted, her American accent smooth and dripping with a patronizing, synthetic warmth.
Greta’s hands settled firmly against her white apron. The sophisticated black maid dress felt suddenly like armor as she braced herself for the collision. She watched Daphne expertly command the attention of the room, completely unaware that the trap she had built for herself was about to snap shut.
