The velvet shadows of midnight had long since draped themselves over the manicured lawns of the Hobbs villa, but inside the grand drawing room, the air was far from restful. The ornate crystal chandelier cast a harsh, unforgiving light on the assembled family members, illuminating faces etched with resentment and exhaustion.
Peter Hobbs sat stiffly at the head of the long mahogany table, his features still twisted in a permanent scowl of humiliated rage. At the far end, tucked away in the "cold seat" of the social hierarchy, sat Paul Hobbs and his immediate family, looking like castaways on the fringes of their own lineage. The power dynamics were palpable; the room felt divided by an invisible chasm.
Jane Hobbs was busy signaling her husband with frantic, sharp nudges of her elbow. Paul
