The kitchen at Valentine Manor smelled like butter and sugar at three in the afternoon, which meant Chef Laurent had visited that morning and left destruction in his wake. The marble island bore evidence of his artistry: macarons arranged in perfect rows by color gradient, fruit tarts glazed to mirror-like perfection, and tiny éclairs that probably cost more per unit than most people's lunches.
Nobody was eating them.
Harlow sat cross-legged on one of the barstools, phone held close to her face, giggling at something on her screen. Her twin tails swayed with each laugh, the pink ribbons catching afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Cassidy occupied the stool beside her, sprawled in that deliberately casual way she had perfected, one leg hooked over the other, arms crossed. She looked like she was ignoring her sister completely. Her eyes kept flicking toward Harlow's phone screen every few seconds.
