The morning sun struggled to pierce through the thick, velvet curtains of Mourning Manor, casting weak and sickly rays of light into the grand dining hall. Gillian sat at the head of the long, mahogany table, his movements deliberate as he cut into his breakfast. The air in the room was heavy, saturated with the scent of roasted coffee and the lingering musk of the previous night’s tension. Across the table, Elena sat with a predatory grace that seemed to vibrate against the stillness of the room. Ghea sat between them, her head bowed as she focused on her plate, her movements small and calculated.
Gillian watched them with a detached intensity. He was not here to play the role of the doting husband, nor was he here to facilitate polite conversation. He was here to observe. He needed to
