"I've had enough of your insults," Lady Beatrix snarled, lunging toward me with her hand raised to strike.
I caught her wrist mid-air, my grip firm enough to make her wince. "Don't," I warned quietly. "Unless you want your daughter to learn exactly what services you once offered at Madame Lavinia's."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits of pure hatred. I released her wrist, and she jerked away from me as if burned.
"Mother, please," Clara pleaded, her voice cracking with exhaustion. "Let's just go."
Master Wilkerson cleared his throat. "Lady Beatrix, I believe it would be best if you and your daughter took your leave now. Clara, remember what we discussed—writing down your memories of your time with Marquess Fairchild may help both the case and your own healing process."
Clara nodded weakly, her mask shifting slightly with the movement. She looked nothing like the proud, vicious girl who had once tormented Isabella. Now she seemed hollow, broken.
