"Don't touch me." Yale Franklin snapped, his hand jerking away as if Evelynn's fingers were ash. The sound landed like a blade across the long dining room. Cutlery chimed. The servants froze mid-step. Evelynn kept her palms in her lap. "I didn't mean—" "You nearly dropped the glass." He tapped the stem with a forefinger as if the porcelain had insulted him personally. "For God's sake, Mrs. Franklin, be careful." She heard the mockery plain in his voice. No one around the table laughed; that would be vulgar. Yale didn't need laughter. His sarcasm was enough. He leaned back in his chair. Leather sighed. "I have a meeting at nine. The Franklin board doesn't wait for sentimentality." He spoke to the invisible room: the portraits, the glass walls, the cameras that watched the city below. The table hummed with the quiet efficiency of Mariner Heights. The servants kept their distance from his shadow. Evelynn's fingers found the rim of the waterglass she had knocked. Her thumb circled the cold lip. The table smelled of lemon oil and old money. "When will you return?" Her voice was small but steady, a practiced thing. She had learned to mask agitation with politeness. It was another kind of armor. "In time for the sanction vote," he said. "Unless new opportunities arise." He stood. The chair scraped. "Dinner with the board tonight. Don't expect me." He read the calendar off his cuff, indifferent. A spoon