The dining room of Blackridge Manor always felt too large when the late-autumn damp settled into the limestone walls of the estate. Victoria had set the table for two at the far end, beneath the low crystal chandelier that cast long, golden reflections across the polished mahogany surface.
She entered from the butler’s pantry carrying the custom engraved silver tea tray, her manicured nails tapping a rhythmic, melodic beat against the metal handle. She had used that same tray since our wedding day, and the sound of her tapping against the silver was as familiar to me as my own breathing.
“You look so tired, darling,” she said, her voice soft and sweet, like honey dissolved in warm water. “You have been staring at those warehouse reports all afternoon.”
She placed a bowl of thick vegetable broth in front of me, the steam rising between us.
“Julian was here earlier,” I said, waiting a long moment before picking up my silver spoon. “He found an irregularity in our primary consulting account.”
