Lily Shaw's words were clear as crystal; those socialite ladies waiting to see her make a fool of herself, those who had been needling her with sly remarks, were in her eyes nothing but a pack of yapping dogs. Why should she stoop so low as to argue with dogs?
No doubt about it, Lily's sharp tongue was just as lethal as Eldest Young Master Grant's.
One look at the twisted grimaces on those impeccably dressed women and you could tell just how much damage Lily's one sentence had inflicted.
They'd been mingling in high society for years, but this was the first time their true rage had cracked through their masks—pristine makeup warping from fury, hands clenched at their sides, jaws grinding audibly.
If Yvonne Sutton had witnessed Aiden Grant in the café calling Tessa Thompson his "little mistress," she would probably be laughing inwardly right now, then mutter, "Well, birds of a feather really do flock together."
