Ingrid’s spies had watched Elizabeth throughout her life. The trio ascended to their reserved seats in the VIP balcony, the opulent red velvet of the left wing enveloping them in an atmosphere of exclusivity and power. Let me tell you that I am pleasantly surprised that at such a tender age you have made such profound and interesting writings that undoubtedly tie in very much with my latest publication. “Good evening, Vivian,” she purred, her voice as smooth as velvet. The older woman’s fingers traced sinuous patterns against Elizabeth’s skin, their breathy whispers and shared laughter a stark reminder of the unspoken bond between mother and daughter. As the maestro raised his baton to signal the commencement of the performance, the bodyguard approached with a silver tray bearing a crystal wine glass. “Mother!”
Viktoria’s eyes snapped back into focus, the intense whiteness replaced by her piercing emerald depths, now narrowed with a mix of frustration and concern. She looked every bit the part of the mysterious and alluring enchantress that Vivian had grown to admire and desire. Retrieving her phone from the bedside table, Vivian’s eyes widened as she saw the name “Carol” illuminated on the screen; her only daughter, currently on a photography tour of Spain.
