Eleanor Starling didn't so much collapse as crumple, her expensive silk gown folding around her like a dying swan's wings. The antique marble floor was cold beneath her, but the sharp sting of humiliation—being pinned against her own wall, a gun pressed to her head by a man she considered trash—was far worse than the superficial scrape on her ear.
She made sure to exaggerate the drama, her limp form a necessary stage prop; after all, a woman had to leverage whatever she could to regain lost dignity.
Daniel Starling, however, saw none of her theatrics. His mind was already miles away, driven by pure, cold calculation. He had rushed after Luciano, only to find the corridor empty. He returned to the drawing room, apologized profusely to the shaken tailor, and rescheduled their appointment, promising exorbitant compensation.
