She hadn't changed much in appearance, Shantel noted. She still had that graceful, demure carriage, like a girl raised all her life on quiet expectations and soft-spoken yeses.
Her hair was neatly pinned, her dress modest but chic, and the smile she wore was so perfectly polite it nearly gleamed with falseness. Or was she mistaken? She thought.
It wasn't until Beatrice raised her head that she saw the change. It was the way her eyes moved—they were too alert and intentional.
For someone who supposedly came to the city, leaving the company of her sick grandmother, she didn't look burdened by grief or worry.
Still, I'll play along, Shantel thought, closing the file in front of her.
"You may leave us alone," she told her driver calmly.
As the door closed behind Blake, Beatrice walked forward, her eyes sweeping the room with visible curiosity before landing on Shantel again.
"Shantel," she greeted with a warmth that didn't reach her eyes. "You look… radiant."
