The Shattered Truth

The Langford estate had grown quieter since Lady Bianca’s collapse, but it was not peace. It was the sort of silence that smothered like velvet — heavy, suffocating, concealing rage beneath its folds.

The east wing had been converted into her recovery suite. Nothing less than the best was permitted. A sprawling chamber with ivory walls and gold leaf molding, French drapes spilling in folds to the floor, and a bed so large it seemed to float in the center. On one side, ...