The dining room at the Croft Estate felt like a courtroom. Alistair sat at the head of the table, cutting his steak with precise, surgical movements. William and Victoria sat on either side, while Lady Beatrice stared into her wine glass, terrified to speak.
“The chef has improved,” Alistair noted, chewing slowly. He turned his predatory gaze to Victoria. “Tell me, Victoria… or was it ‘Elena’ for a while? How did you find the accommodations in Europe?”
Victoria froze, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, come now,” Alistair smiled, a cold expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I read the file. You ‘died’ in an avalanche. A tragic performance. I’m curious–when you were hiding in that Italian villa, pretending to have amnesia, did you ever think about the husband you left behind? or was the freedom simply too intoxicating?”
“Stop it,” William snapped, gripping the table.
“I am merely making conversation,” Alistair said lightly, enjoying the way Victoria’s hands trembled. “It must take a certain… theatrical talent… to let the world mourn you while you drink espresso in Portofino. We have so much in common, you and I. We both know the value of a well-timed resurrection”.