Eleanor WitchBourne sighed.
Nearly cursed. Got as far as the first syllable — the sharp, satisfying f already forming between her teeth — before she caught herself and swallowed it back down.
Ladies didn't curse. WitchBournewomen especially didn't curse. Hundred years of breeding and boarding schools and the constant, low-grade surveillance of a family that measured its worth in reputation rather than currency had beaten that particular impulse into submission long before Eleanor was old enough to know what the words meant.
But gods, she wanted to.
Seven days.
Seven days she'd been sitting in this place— this admittedly beautiful, obscenely expensive room on the forty-third floor of the Sovereign Tower — waiting.
Just... waiting. Like a parcel that had been delivered to the wrong address and was too polite to complain about it.
