The soup course was cleared away by silent footmen, replaced by a fish course that looked like it had been plated with a protractor.
The silence in the room had shifted from shocked to oppressive. Grandfather Sinclair, having recovered from the initial assault of the "Damien Face" dress, decided to reclaim control the only way he knew how: by boring everyone to death.
"The Sinclair legacy," Grandfather droned, cutting his sole meunière with mechanical precision, "is built on stability. It is built on the bedrock of respect and tradition. We do not chase trends. We do not... tweet."
He shot a withered glare at Aria.
"We endure. The Trust was established in 1920 to ensure that no single individual could compromise the integrity of our holdings. It requires a steady hand. A serious mind."
Aria nodded politely, though her eyes were glazing over. She sat straight in her chair, the stiff gold brocade of her dress acting as a corset, keeping her posture perfect.
