Evelyn raised two fingers to her lip. They came away clean, though the cut stung. The faint bruise on her right cheek, left from the accident, felt hot beneath Grant’s handprint.
She breathed in through her nose.
The late-afternoon light passed through the smoked glass and spread Grant’s shadow across her navy cardigan. Warm ceiling lights glowed above them. Somewhere deeper in the house, an ice maker released a tray with a hollow clatter.
No one looked toward the sound.
Grant picked up one of the three black access cards from the stone console and held it between two fingers.
“This is already done,” he said. “The only question is whether you make it difficult.”
Evelyn lowered her hand.
“Difficult for whom?”
His mouth tightened. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re still chairing a meeting.”
“I’m sitting in my foyer.”
“Our foyer.”
Vivian’s gaze shifted toward Grant, not enough to be obvious unless someone had spent years watching her turn disapproval into a fraction of an inch.