Chapter 30: The Tea Begins

The Whitmore residence did not announce itself with gates or guards. It simply appeared, set back from the street as if it had always been there and would remain long after the city rearranged itself around it. Pale stone. Deep windows. A sense of restraint that suggested confidence rather than modesty.

Lillian followed the housekeeper through a corridor that smelled faintly of bergamot and old paper. Every step felt deliberate. The air itself seemed trained to be quiet.

They entered a sunlit room overlooking a private garden. Not manicured. Curated. Roses grew beside herbs. Jasmine climbed a trellis that had been allowed to age naturally. Nothing here was loud. Everything here endured.

Beatrice Whitmore sat at a small round table set for tea.

“Lillian,” she said, rising slowly. “Thank you for coming.”

Her smile was warm. Unforced. The kind that put others at ease without asking permission. Lillian felt it immediately and distrusted it just as quickly.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Lil