Cynthia Russell sat at the edge of her mirrored vanity, staring into her own reflection as though daring it to fracture. Her hands trembled, but the tremor was not from fear. It was rage.
She used to be the woman everyone bowed to. Her name had been stitched into social calendars, gilded in auction invitations, whispered with admiration behind champagne flutes. Now?
"Heiress Poisoned by Husband" had crawled its way into every headline. Her face, once synonymous with beauty and grace, had been digitally aged, shaded with suspicion.
They called her complicit.
They were right.
Cynthia gripped the edge of the vanity, her manicured nails digging crescents into the lacquered surface. Her reflection stared back with unkind eyes. Eyes too hollow, too knowing.
The door creaked open.
"Madam?" The housekeeper's voice was tentative. "The board wants you to make a statement. They say there's still time to salvage the foundation."
