The Sterling mansion never slept.
Its halls gleamed with cold perfection—polished marble that reflected the flicker of crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed portraits that stared down with imperious judgment, and the faint scent of imported jasmine that clung to the air like a warning.
Silas leaned against the wall of the private corridor, hands crossed, shoulders stiff. The crisp black suit felt constricting. Not because it didn’t fit—it fit like armour—but because it was a costume. A reminder that he was a pawn.
Arthur Sterling’s orders had been clear.
“Vance,” the patriarch had said, voice thin and clinical, “you will stay in the mansion tonight. Extra hands will be needed to attend to our executive guests. Make sure everything runs smoothly. Do not leave this property.”
The word smoot
