By the third day after Edward’s death, the house had begun to breathe again — not with peace, but with purpose.
Servants polished every surface. New flowers arrived. Father’s voice could be heard in the study, clipped and firm, arranging meetings, silencing gossip.
To the outside world, we were a family in mourning.
Inside, we were preparing for the next transaction.
When the doorbell rang that afternoon, I already knew who it was.
Father had been expecting him — Carl Sterling, Edward’s younger brother.
The man who would arrive as condolence, but stay as strategy.
He stepped through the doorway like he owned it.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impeccably dressed in charcoal and silk. His features were almost too perfect — sharp jaw, sculpted cheekbones, eyes the color of whiskey poured in
