Elira hadn’t slept. Not really.
Between Delilah’s taunts echoing down the hall, the memory of Soren’s voice in the wind, and the dress from Golderdy folded at the bottom of the trash, sleep had no place in her chest.
She stood barefoot in the kitchen at 4 a.m., sipping tea she didn’t want, staring out into the pitch-black garden.
And that’s when she saw it.
A shadow.
Not just any shadow—one that moved like it had purpose. Like it had keys to the estate.
She reached for the butcher knife on the counter.
—
Damien had taken up residence in the west wing, where he could think, scheme, and bleed in peace.
He hadn’t told Elira that he’d found a hidden file inside the baby’s swaddle—a chip wedged in the seam of the blanket.
Encrypted.
The kind of encryption only someone inside his past
