The invitation arrived on a Thursday morning, hand-delivered to Sterling Estate on a silver tray by Harold, who carried it like it might detonate. I was in the library, going over the latest security reports with Marcus. The room still smelled of old books and cold fireplace ash, the same scent that had surrounded me the first time I met my father. Outside, the gardens were beginning to thaw. Spring was coming, slow and reluctant, but coming nonetheless. Harold set the tray on the table beside me. The envelope was heavy cream paper, expensive and textured, the kind of stationery that cost more than most people spent on a week of groceries. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar. Sharp. Deliberate. My full name, written in dark ink. Clara Sterling. No title. No address. Just my name. "Who delivered this?" I asked. "A courier. He left immediately. Security attempted to detain him, but he was drivi
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