“My apartment in Santa Monica is empty,” she continued, raising her voice a little. “It’s small, of course, but for a woman living alone, it’s perfect. Besides, that way Daniel and I can start our life without worries.”
A few female guests lowered their eyes. One of Daniel’s aunts tightened the napkin on her lap. The photographer stopped taking pictures.
Daniel, Evelyn’s son, smiled awkwardly, as if he wanted to turn the insult into a joke, but his face couldn’t quite manage it.
Evelyn looked at her son first.
Not at Claire.
At her son.
That little boy who used to run barefoot through the halls of the estate. That young man who cried when his father d!ed. That man who now, wearing a new ring and a black suit, avoided holding her gaze.
Evelyn breathed slowly.
