The world narrowed to the woman stepping out of the Mercedes.
The air grew still.
It was Falon who broke the spell, his tone flat. "Mother. What are you doing here?"
Cordelia Gray finally shifted her gaze to her son as if he were a disappointing piece of art. "I've come home."
Her attention snapped back to me. "The news cycles are deafening. My presence is required."
She took a step forward, each click of her stiletto a nail in the coffin of my peace. Barry, the steward, shrank into the doorway.
"The Havenfield Gala is in one week," she continued.
"The event where the Luna…"—she let the title hang, a crown she deemed my neck unfit to bear—"…is hostess." Her eyes conducted a slow, insulting inventory of me.
"But given the… circumstances, it's clear the current Luna cannot manage it. The pack expects grace. Not a media circus."
She stopped just before us, the scent of her perfume a cloying cloud of jasmine and ice.
