"My lady!" Adelle called out in a half-whimper, half-gasp, scurrying behind Ava like a loyal yet deeply panicked puppy. The sound of her hurried slippers thudded softly against the marbled floor of the grand staircase of Ford's Estate, echoing through the hall with theatrical urgency.
Meanwhile, Ava Summers descended like a dramatic film star from a vintage spy movie—only slightly more furious and heavily pregnant.
She wore a form-fitting crimson pencil-cut dress that stubbornly clung to her hips, a pair of orthopedic crimson slippers—because heels were strictly forbidden now, much to her despair, a large crimson sunhat that almost covered half her upper field of vision, and matching oversized sunglasses she dramatically pulled down to her nose every now and then just to make a point—any point.
