The silence in the grand hall of Mourning Manor was not the peaceful stillness of an undisturbed home, but the charged, electric quiet that precedes a violent storm. Gillian stood at the center of the vast, marble-floored room, his presence casting a long, imposing shadow that seemed to stretch toward the very rafters. His face was a mask of cold, controlled fury, his eyes tracking every movement in the room with the lethal focus of a hunter who had finally cornered his prey. Across from him, Klara stood by the massive stone fireplace, her gown cascading like dark silk around her feet. She held a glass of wine with an air of practiced nonchalance, though the slight tremor in her fingers betrayed the tension she was desperately trying to conceal.
"You have no right to question my decisio
