Mel Bles

Mel Bles Farraday did not get caught off guard. It was a law as unshakable as the marble pillars of the Farraday estate. And yet—when she heard his name spoken, so casually, so unaware of the devastation it carried—her breath hitched. It was imperceptible. No one noticed—except, perhaps, Preston, who had inherited his father’s cold pragmatism but her sharp instincts. His gaze flicked toward her, assessing, reading too much, too well. Mel Bles recovered instantly. She turned, drink in hand, expression as smooth as polished glass. I’m sorry, what did you say?