Morning at the Sterling estate did not feel like morning.
It felt like positioning.
The sun spilled gold across polished marble floors, but the air was heavy — tense in that quiet, aristocratic way where danger wore cologne.
Silas arrived early.
Game day.
He should have been at the rink reviewing defensive rotations.
Instead, he was stationed in the Sterling driveway like ornamental security.
A black Whitestone convoy rolled through the gates at precisely 9:00 a.m.
Precision.
Silas noted it.
The first car door opened.
Killian Whitestone stepped out like a man stepping onto conquered land.
Charcoal suit. No tie. Dark glasses. Smile polished and predatory.
His eyes found Silas immediately.
“Well,” Killian said smoothly as he approached. “The Shield himself.”
Silas didn’t move.
