Eleanor Whitmore stood at the tall windows of her estate, watching another driver speed down her circular driveway. The man didn’t even stop to collect his final paycheck. He just left.
“That’s the fourth one this month,” Margaret said from behind her.
Eleanor’s aunt stepped into the foyer, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
“Eleanor, dear, you simply must—”
“Must what?” Eleanor turned, her green eyes sharp. “Pretend these people are competent when they’re not?”
Margaret sighed. She was fifty-eight and had been dealing with Eleanor’s moods for years.
“They’re not incompetent, sweetheart. They’re afraid of you.”
Eleanor laughed, but there was no warmth in it.
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