Transmigrated Into The True Heiress

Ephyra smiled, "She is. Impressively deceptive."

Malia raised a brow, intrigued. "Deceptive? How so?"

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Ephyra tilted her glass slightly, watching the champagne bubble. "It’s in her tone, her choice of words. She wants everyone to see perfection—an unshakable image of harmony and progress. But perfection is a mask. And masks, no matter how finely crafted, always crack under pressure."

Orla, who had been quietly observing, leaned in as well. "So you think there’s something off about this partnership?"

Ephyra’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. "What do you think?"

"I think it’s all a charade," Malia said smugly, raising her chin.

Orla scoffed, "Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, tell us something we don’t know." She swirled her wine glass lazily, her gaze flicking toward Leandra Latham, who was now engaged in polite conversation with a group of senior executives. "But it’s one thing to suspect and another to prove it."

Ephyra tapped a manicured finger against her glass, her expression contemplative. "Proving it isn’t always necessary. Sometimes, all it takes is to expose a weakness—a flaw in their narrative. Once the seed of doubt is planted, it grows on its own."

Malia leaned back in her chair, her curiosity piqued. "You sound like you’ve done this before."