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.
“I appreciate the offer, Claire,” she said with a calmness sharper than a scream, “but I live very happily in my own home.”
A short laugh came from a table in the back. Everyone in Daniel’s family knew exactly which home she meant.
The Aspen estate was not some little house. It was 14 acres on the outskirts of Aspen, with old gardens, a restored library, stables converted into art storage rooms, and a guest wing that Evelyn’s late husband, Henry Carter, had rebuilt brick by brick before he d!ed.
Claire’s jaw tightened.
“Of course, but that house is far too big for you alone.”
Evelyn did not answer. She had already learned that people hungry for control always ended up serving their own confession.
Then Daniel took one step toward her.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “I didn’t want to tell you today.”
A small chill ran down Evelyn’s back.
“Tell me what?”
Daniel swallowed. Claire looked at him as if warning him not to back down.
“Claire’s parents are moving into Aspen. Her sister Megan too, a few cousins, and Aunt Carol. Just for a while.”
A godmother’s glass hit her plate.
