Chapter 228 - Two Hundred And Twenty Eight

The heavy paper crinkled softly in Eric's hands as he read the last part of the letter from Fredrick. His voice was steady and clear in the quiet drawing room, filling the space between him, Delia, and Prescott.

"… I told Augusta to pay me an advance because I wasn't sure if she could pay the money she promised me in her current state. Of course, she felt insulted. She spoke, and I quote: 'My daughter handles the textile part of Ellington Textiles. We can prepare tens of millions in a second. You have heard of the weaver named Adair Reed, right? The man who killed himself out of exhaustion weaving his last masterpiece? He's quite famous for using years to weave a masterpiece. I have his last unreleased fabric. If it comes out in public, people will buy it. Even the king will not be exempted.'"

Eric paused, his gaze lifting from the page to meet Delia's. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but the mood in the room was far from bright. Delia sat perfectly still on the velvet settee, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her brow was furrowed with concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line. Beside her, Prescott leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face a mask of serious concern.

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