Mr. Zim's brows were knitted so tightly that deep creases carved across his forehead. He had always been a composed man — refined, strategic, measured — but tonight his restraint was fraying thread by thread.
He paced once across the sitting room of Ulberti Mansion, leather shoes whispering against polished wood, before stopping in front of his daughter. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried restrained emotion — the kind that trembled just beneath the surface of control.
Then he ordered Amelia's favorite porridge, knowing she hadn't eaten since yesterday.
"Yes," Mr. Zim said gravely. "Nerissa called late last night. She said everyone has been searching for you — frantic, desperate. Especially Kendrick."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"Your mother and I couldn't reach you either. That
