It was a small, private affair, strictly curated by a woman who had long ago mastered the art of controlling optics. Ophelia Welhaven did not want to have to deal with the performative grief of a crowd, nor did she wish to endure the prying eyes of the socialites who would undoubtedly be looking for a crack in her composure. She had invited just their closest friends and family, the few who knew which secrets to keep and which questions never to ask.
A couple of hours later, the black veil had been tossed aside, and she was back at home. The silence of the Welhaven estate was deafening, yet oddly comforting. She was in her study, the room dim save for a single desk lamp, pouring herself a generous measure of expensive whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal glass, reflecting the cold light of her eyes. She had just lifted her head to take a sip when a sharp, rhythmic knock on the door broke the stillness.
