"Your love must be so great," Lorraine said at last, her voice silk threaded with steel, "that after all these years, you still cling to your husband's shadow."
The Dowager laughed, brittle, too sharp to hide the crack in her composure. Her eyes misted even as her mouth twisted. "And if you don't listen—" her voice dropped, low and dire, each syllable weighted like a curse, "—you may learn too late how swiftly devotion curdles into mourning."
The words struck like ice water poured straight into her veins. Lorraine's fingers curled hard into her palms. She had expected this. Of course, she had. The Dowager would never leave without baring her fangs at last. She had braced for the moment. But when the threat finally came, when Leroy's life was dangled so carelessly in that venom-laced mouth, something sharp and furious tore loose inside her.
