Margaret Vance's admission hung in the air between us like smoke from a dying fire. Her perfectly styled hair had come slightly undone, and her hands still trembled despite her attempts at composure.
"Wrong how?" I asked, settling into one of the delicate chairs that looked like it might collapse under my weight.
She moved to the window, staring out at the garden where Jordan Nash had met his end. "I thought you were just another opportunist. Someone trying to use Clara for her family's connections."
"And now?"
"Now I realize you're something far more dangerous." She turned to face me, her eyes holding a mixture of fear and calculation. "The question is, what do you want with my daughter?"
I leaned back, studying her carefully. Margaret Vance had spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of high society. She hadn't survived this long without learning to read people and situations.
"I want to protect her," I said simply.
