Across the long, mahogany table sat the single greatest threat to that illusion: Elena, Christopher’s wife. Eight months pregnant, she was a vision of serene beauty in a gown of pale blue silk that flowed around her form like gentle water. A soft, genuine warmth radiated from her smile, but a quiet caution flickered in the depths of her brown eyes. She was an outsider who had somehow breached the fortress walls, and Beatrice had never let her forget it.