The Fitting
Naomi Sinclair stood on a small round platform in the center of Corinne Ashgrove's private sitting room, arms lifted, while a seamstress pinned ivory silk at her ribs. The room smelled like lilies and old money — heavy drapes, a fireplace that never seemed to go out even in August.
"Turn," Corinne said. Not asked. Said.
Naomi turned.
Corinne circled her the way she circled everything — slowly, assessing, cataloguing flaws before they'd even happened. She was sixty-one and looked forty-five through sheer will, silver hair pulled back so tight it seemed to pull her whole face into permanent composure.
"You'll need to come by Thursday," Corinne said. "Final papers. Rehearsal dinner is Friday, and Grant's father likes everything settled before the toasts start."
"Papers?"
"Prenuptial documents. Standard." Corinne smiled without warmth. "Every family like ours has them. You'll barely notice signing it."
Naomi caught her own reflection in the gilded mirror — white dress, pins glinting like small warnings down her side. Behind her, reflected too, Corinne had already turned toward the door, already moving on to the next item on a list only she could see.
"Grant said he already looked it over," Naomi offered.
"Grant doesn't read contracts. He reads people." A pause. "You should learn to do both, if you're going to be one of us."
The comment landed strange, like it meant two things at once. Naomi opened her mouth to ask what she meant — but a housekeeper appeared at the door with an envelope, thick and sealed, and Corinne's whole posture changed. She crossed the room fast, took it without a word of thanks, and tucked it into a drawer Naomi had never seen her open before.
She locked it. With a key she wore on a chain around her neck, under her blouse, against her skin.
Naomi had known Corinne for two years. She had never once seen a locked drawer.
"That's everything for today," Corinne said, smoothing her sleeve like nothing had happened. "Thursday, then. Don't be late — the papers won't wait for you."
She left. The seamstress kept pinning, humming softly, oblivious.
Naomi stared at the drawer in the mirror's reflection, memorizing exactly where it sat, exactly how small that key had looked — and exactly how fast a woman who never hurried had just moved to hide something.