The estate was unusually quiet that morning. The usual chatter of the staff, the clattering of dishes from the kitchens, the movement of boots across the polished floors, all of it seemed muted, careful, as though the very walls carried the weight of suspicion.
Damien sat in his office, maps and notes sprawled across the table in front of him. For three days he had been running the same operation, testing information, planting false reports, watching to see who would leak, who would move, who would flinch. Yet nothing.
Not a sound. Not a movement.
The spy had gone silent.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaustion drawing lines across his face. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden armrest, frustration mounting. “Careful,” he muttered under his breath. “Too careful.”
He had
