Chapter 172: Lessons That Are Not Lessons

Beatrice Whitmore did not call them lessons.

She called them afternoons.

Every Wednesday at four, a car arrived for Lillian. No urgency. No explanation. The driver never spoke unless spoken to. The route never varied. Through Virex City’s widening arteries and then up the gentle incline toward Celestine Heights, where time seemed to slow by design.

Lillian learned quickly that resistance would only create friction. Beatrice never demanded. She simply expected.

The sitting room they used overlooked the private garden. Tea was always prepared before Lillian arrived. The same porcelain cups. The same pale oolong. The same seat angled toward the light, as if Beatrice had long ago decided where Lillian belonged.

“Today,” Beatri