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AUTHOR’S POV
The atmosphere in the dimly lit drawing room was thick with unspoken words. The faint ticking of the antique clock against the far wall was the only sound filling the silence between the three figures seated around the dark mahogany table.
Vincein sat with his arms crossed, his dark eyes unreadable as he leaned back against the chair, exuding an air of quiet authority.
Beside him, Sloane sat with her hands neatly folded on her lap, though she occasionally stole glances at her brother, trying to gauge his mood.
Across from them, their uncle, a man with sharp, observant eyes and a calculating mind, seemed entirely at ease, as if he thrived in situations like this.
Vincein had never been fond of long conversations, nor had he ever shared an easy rapport with his
