Camila perched on the edge of a plush, ivory armchair, her posture perfect but her fingers laced tightly together in her lap betraying her tension. She watched Blake as he poured himself a glass of vintage cognac, the liquid's amber hue glinting in the soft light of the opulent drawing room.

　　"Blake," Camila began, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her, "I need to know what happened the night my mother died."

　　He turned, leaning against the ...