The drawing room was draped in the heavy black velvet of mourning, a stark contrast to the white ribbons Marissa had torn down the day before. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and the quiet murmur of anticipation.
Beatrice, the Dowager Duchess, sat in her chair, her face grey with grief. She looked frail, as if the news of Derek's death had finally broken the iron will that had held the family together for decades.
Carlos stood by the fireplace, dressed in a somber black suit that fit him a little too well. He looked solemn, but his eyes were bright, darting around the room, checking the clock, checking the door.
Ashlyn stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm. She wore a simple black dress, her face a mask of sisterly sorrow. But inside, her heart was racing. This was it. The moment of ascension.
The heavy double doors opened.
