The next was colder. Also floral, but fractured. Thin lines like spindled glass ran through blossoms too neat to be wild. It felt like waiting. Not passive, but coiled.
The fourth was sparse: two strokes only. Pale gold, a diagonal bloom. Together.
Free.
Bea stopped. Her chest felt oddly full, like she’d swallowed something heavy that hadn’t landed yet.
Lillian appeared beside her. “I think she arranged them on purpose. Like a story.”
Bea nodded. She couldn’t name the artists or explain the brushwork. But she knew what it was to walk through them.
And somehow, she felt almost like she understood Natalie Stratton—not as a name, or a legend, but as a woman like any other.
One who had broken. And come back.
The Rose Parlor was pure saturation—candlelight, crimson dahlias, velvet upholstery in shades of blush and wine. The noise didn’t hush. It swelled like dividends after a good quarter. Laughter spilled between circles of young women who lounged like they owned the estate, legs crossed, shoes off, drinks in hand.
No parents, no men, no press. Just capital-backed femininity at leisure.
Someone had kicked off her heels. Someone else had climbed onto the window seat with a fruit tart and no shame. Austerity was clearly not on trend. This wasn’t a gallery. It was the green room before the main event.
“I still think it’s funny,” Isabel said, stabbing a strawberry with her tiny gold fork, “how Mason keeps masquerading as a man who hasn’t picked a villa.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Charles literally said, ‘We should look at rings,’ and then told me to clear my December. Subtle.”
“I told Hunter to wait,” Georgie said. “I’m not marrying him this year.”
Three girls approached, champagne flutes in hand and confidence in every step.
“Naomi,” the first said, raising her glass. “Still managing Charles’ calendar?”
“Only the parts that involve me,” Naomi replied, all teeth.
“I’m told Mason’s been looking at real estate,” said the second.
Isabel barely looked up. “Maybe it’s a hobby.”
The third girl, nearly six feet tall and iced in diamonds, gave Georgina a once-over. “Still playing the long game?”
Georgie sipped her drink. “Hunter’s housebroken. No need to rush.”
A summons from the terrace pulled them away, and they flitted off, their exit looking at once rehearsed and radiant.
“Enjoying your pre-Harvest Summit experience?” Naomi asked Lillian.
“Actually, it hasn’t been as bad as I imagined.”
“What did you imagine?”
“More mean girls, to be honest,” Lillian replied.
Isabel leaned in, tone dry. “We’ve all learned to play nice. At least in public.”
“You generally only getspecialmean-girl attention if you’ve taken a man someone particularly wants.” She turned to Bea. “Case in point: Catherine Vale haunting the lover of Gage King.”
If only she could be got rid of with an exorcism.
“Catherine isn’t here today,” Lillian observed.
