“Connor, your mother said I can't stop yet,” Amy whispered, her voice cracking with the unbearable humiliation of total defeat.
From the shadows of the arched doorway leading into the formal dining room, Helen stood like an unyielding monument. The 55-year-old blonde woman wore an elegant beige lace dress that hugged her frame with aristocratic precision. In her manicured hand, she held a crystal champagne glass, the amber liquid catching the chandelier light. Her blue eyes were entirely devoid of warmth as she surveyed the scene she had meticulously engineered.