Shards of porcelain—what remained of an antique vase—littered the marble floor, scattered among torn strips of newspaper, snapped flower stems, and small puddles of spilt water.
Eleanor froze.
For a split second, her mind went blank. Then, realisation set in like a cold wave. Her eyes narrowed, shifting toward her son.
"Leo, you—" Her brows knitted into a tight furrow, her tone teetering between disbelief and reprimand.
A flicker of disappointment surfaced in her usually calm gaze.
"How could you make such a mess in someone else's home?"
Her voice, though soft, carried a subtle edge, tinged with the weary exasperation of a mother who expected better.
To Eleanor, Leo had always been bright, composed, mature beyond his years. But now?
Now he looked like any other rebellious child, caught red-handed in a fit of chaos.
The pristine elegance of William’s Court had been reduced to utter mayhem—and there was no question in her mind who the culprit was.