The Glass Performance

The Thorne estate was not a home; it was a museum of cold marble, calculated silence, and the heavy scent of lilies that smelled, to Elara, like a funeral. Standing in the center of the primary dressing suite, she watched her reflection in the triple-mirrored vanity. The glass didn’t just reflect her; it appraised her, a silent judge in a room that felt more like a courtroom than a boudoir.

Mrs. Halloway, a woman whose spine seemed reinforced with industrial-grade steel, held up a gown of muted, forgettable dove grey. "Mr. Thorne prefers understated elegance for his partners, Miss Vance. This piece ensures you remain… unobtrusive. It is the company standard for those who represent the family’s public image."

Elara didn't reach for the grey fabric. She looked at the woman, her gaze steady, refusing to blink. "The company standard is for ornaments, Mrs. Halloway. I am a partner. And partners do not blend into the wallpaper."

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