The sun dipped low outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an amber glow across the marble floor. The skyline glittered beyond, but inside the penthouse, the air was heavy, tight, and filled with a silence that felt like it might crack at any second.
Kingsley sat on the edge of the leather couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the untouched glass of water on the coffee table. He heard the elevator chime.
He didn't look up.
He knew who it was.
The click of expensive heels entered first — his mother. Soft perfume, delicate, elegant. Then the sharp, heavy footsteps of his father, leather shoes striking the floor like a judge's gavel.
They were here.
And they were angry.
"Kingsley," his father's voice cut through the room, cold and precise. "We need to talk."
His mother's voice
