Lyra stared at her phone in bewilderment. The message from Declan Hale made absolutely no sense.
"Your parasite?" she muttered to herself, her brow furrowing. "What on earth?"
As she pondered this strange request, another message popped up: "Sorry, autocorrect. I meant parasol. The one you had at dinner."
Lyra rolled her eyes. That made marginally more sense, but it was still an odd request from a man she'd just met. And why would a powerful tycoon like Declan Hale want her simple rain umbrella? She typed a polite refusal and put away her phone, dismissing him as eccentric.
The Covington estate was abuzz with activity when Lyra arrived. Staff members hurried through the corridors, carrying decorations, flower arrangements, and expensive tableware. Old Mrs. Covington's 86th birthday banquet was clearly going to be the social event of the season.
