Daryll and Monica arrived in the early afternoon, the autumn sun casting long shadows across the drive as they pulled up to the estate. Aunt Estella led them to Franz's study in the west wing, where Arianne was already waiting.
She was seated on the leather couch near the window, her belly now pronounced enough that she had to angle sideways to be comfortable. The business plan—the one Franz had printed for her the night before—lay on the coffee table in front of her, its pages covered in her neat, precise handwriting. Red ink. Blue ink. Yellow highlighter in strategic places. She had been thorough.
"Ms. Summers," Monica said, taking a seat across from her. "You're glowing."
Arianne looked up from the documents. "I feel like a whale. Glowing is not the word I'd use."
