The Langston dining room was so pristine it felt sterile: polished mahogany, white linen, and sunlight filtered through lace curtains. Every gleam of silverware was precise enough to reflect discomfort.

I sat quietly, aware of Mrs. Langston’s gaze on me, the faint smile that never reached her eyes. The servants moved briskly, setting down dishes under her watchful supervision.

“Be sure the wine’s properly chilled,” she instructed one of them. “Nova has refined tastes.”

Her tone was ...