The silence that followed Eleanor's announcement hung heavy in the grand Ainsworth dining room. Arthur, as predicted, had merely scoffed, dismissing her declaration as a child's fanciful whim. Ethan, Julian, and Oliver, however, were a whirlwind of emotions – disbelief, confusion, and a nascent fear that gnawed at the edges of their carefully constructed world.

Eleanor watched them, a detached observer of a drama she felt oddly disconnected from. The weight of her past life, the years of neglect and quiet despair, shielded her from the immediacy of their reactions. They were seeing a petulant child rebelling, she knew, not a woman seeking escape from a gilded cage that had become a prison.

The clatter of silverware against porcelain seemed deafening. The scent of the roasted pheasant, usually a source of comfort, now felt suffocating. Eleanor pushed her chair back, the scrape echoing in the cavernous room.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning within. “I have… preparations to make.”