The sound of the doors shutting behind George was almost satisfying. Almost.
Patricia remained still for a moment, staring into the fireplace like it might speak back. It didn't, just silence and the occasional crackle of the fire.
She reached for the crystal decanter on the sideboard and poured herself a measured glass of amber liquor. The scent was sharp and comforting. The taste, clean fire down her throat.
She needed it. George always left behind the smell of unfinished ruin, like an old book soaked in smoke. She hated how calm he had been. How composed. She hated him from their first day as a couple; she deserved better.
That man was too composed.
But she wasn't concerned. Not truly. She would have enough time to destroy him once her and Hadeon's plans were finalized. For the moment, it was enough that George was nothing more than a puppet—leashed and dangling, made to perform his little theater of regret while the real power moved in silence behind him.
