[center][h3][color=91AABA]E D W A R D[/color][/h3][/center]

[center][h3][sup][sup][i]“𝚈𝚘𝚞…𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖…𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?”[/i][/sup][/sup][/h3][/center]

The question kept Edward up all night. He didn't feel like leaving his suit for a pair of silk pajamas, no matter how frequent the staff were in asking him to change. It was like they were desperate to do their jobs for fear of having their livelihoods taken away from them. He replayed the events of the conversation with Adeline in his head, of the words spoken he couldn't bring himself to give sound. He knew Adeline was getting off scot-free; perhaps it was for the best. She may have been flighty, but she wasn't a murderer. Perhaps that was the best reason why she [i]could[/i] be, but he chose to believe otherwise. He could see it in her eyes when she slipped beneath the shade of Benoit's car door. They were the eyes of a lost lamb in a den of wolves.

In the morning, Edward did his best to straighten the suit in which he slept and free it of wrinkles, though he largely didn't care at that moment. A short combing and a few spritzes of sea salt and cedarwood later, and he was suddenly in the Sprinter van, opting for the backseat with a clear view of the rear window. Behind his shades, he watched conspicuous cars pull out of parallel parking and trail the van for a mile, flashes breaching their front windshields, and he sighed. Someone in the team must've tipped off the paparazzi, though these days, those flagrant, soulless beings just somehow knew all the information. They camped out in their cars, in trees, in any place they could get a vantage point. Though the walls of Blackstone Manor were high, the paparazzi's penchant for bullshittery was mountainous.

By the time the van reached the offices of Royson & Browne, there were no photographers in sight, but he wouldn't have been surprised if they decided to swarm the steps leading up to their door. However, the trek inside was largely ineffectual—a silent ascent into the belly of a beast who held the last words of a dead man. All of this played like a slot machine in Edward's mind as he took his seat at the large pill-shaped table. He wondered how many families were here before them, awaiting their scraps like starving dogs, as they were about to do.

The scent of Edward's cologne was almost immediately decapitated by a guillotine of sharp vanilla as Kayleigh Waters, his father's personal assistant—and, much to his mother's dismay, his 'new car'—invaded the room like a virus. Edward conjured up the amusing idea of lighting every cigarette in his case at once, though the thought of so much smoke in the room was inconvenient. Edward was silent as she addressed the room with a rather backhanded remark.

“𝚂𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚒𝚝?”

Kayleigh, for all her worth, was probably innocent, though another funny, even more fucked up thought emerged in Edward's brain. Perhaps the family should band together and frame her for Anthony's death. They all didn't like each other much, but they all liked her less.

Edward watched Ryland, his mother's personal lawyer, prepare the statements of the will, as he listened to the short exchange between Kayleigh and his mother. Say this for Regina Blackstone—she was sharp-witted and could make comebacks like none other. Edward earned his silver tongue and stripes in wordplay from her, there was no doubt. As he reminisced earlier days, his attention was taken to Katherine, who had set her phone on the table rather purposefully. Eyes on her, he waited as if expecting her to speak.