The salon was unusually still that morning. Sunlight filtered through sheer ivory curtains, catching the dust motes in a lazy, golden drift. Duchess Serathine D'Argente sat with a steaming cup of bergamot tea untouched in her hand, her expression unreadable as she reread the last page of the report David had brought her.
The quiet stretched, but David knew better than to interrupt her thinking. He stood with that perfect posture only decades of service could instill, his silver-trimmed uniform immaculate, one gloved hand resting lightly on the back of her chair.
"The non-disclosure clauses are aggressive," she murmured at last, placing the page down. "Standard, yes. But layered. Structured to bury someone."
David inclined his head. "Not unusual for those under Misty Kilmer's payroll, Your Grace."
Serathine gave a sharp, soft laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Misty doesn't have a payroll. She has a leash. And these men signed it with both hands."
