Chapter 1
The private bookbinding salon of the D’Angelo publishing house was bathed in brilliant, cinematic light. There were no harsh shadows, no muted tones to dull the vibrant, bright colors of the room. Crisp, pure sunlight streamed through the massive skylights, highlighting the polished hardwood floors and the wealthy, fair-skinned guests gathered inside. These were the elite of the city, white American adults dressed in impeccable formal wear, their rosy cheeks flushed with champagne. The salon was a masterpiece of old-world craftsmanship, housing a massive rolling binding-supply cart stacked high with blank journals and unrolled bookcloth. But today, it had been repurposed to celebrate Elisa Pierce’s twenty-fifth birthday.
At the center of the room, a magnificent, untouched birthday cake rested on a mahogany table. Elisa stood beside it, wearing an elegant, flowing birthday dress that should have made her the undeniable center of attention. Instead, her fair skin was pale, and her shoulders were tightly drawn.
“You aren't smiling, Elisa,” Dorothea Pierce said, her American accent dripping with condescending venom. At sixty-five, Harlan’s mother was draped in a luxurious formal gown, heavy pearl jewelry resting against her collarbone. She stepped closer to her young daughter-in-law, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
“I’m just a little tired, Dorothea,” Elisa murmured softly, her eyes darting nervously toward the nearby guests. “It’s been a very long morning.”
“Tired?” Dorothea scoffed, her perfectly powdered face twisting into a cruel smirk. “You don't get to be tired. Not when my family is hosting.”
Without a fraction of warning, Dorothea snatched a heavily loaded serving tray from a nearby catering stand. The silver platter was piled high with crystal glasses and appetizers. With a violent, aggressive shove, the older woman thrust the heavy tray directly into Elisa’s arms.
Elisa gasped, her high heels stumbling backward as she caught the massive weight, the heavy silver bruising her ribs through the fabric of her elegant dress.
“What are you doing?” Elisa whispered, her voice trembling as she fought to balance the tray. “It’s my birthday.”
Dorothea ignored her entirely. She turned her cold, calculating eyes to the floor, where four-year-old Luca stood in his elegant little child’s suit. The boy’s rosy cheeks were bunched in confusion. Dorothea reached over to the table, grabbed a towering, unstable stack of ceramic dessert plates, and shoved them aggressively into the little boy’s hands.
“Hold these, boy,” Dorothea commanded sharply.
“They’re too heavy, Grandma,” Luca whimpered, his small arms buckling instantly under the weight of the thick ceramic.
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Dorothea leaned down, her pearl necklace swaying as she locked her cold eyes onto the struggling four-year-old and his terrified mother.
“Birthday or not,” Dorothea smirked, her voice a cruel, jagged blade slicing through the cheerful music of the salon. “You still have to serve the family.”
