Nathan called at eight o’clock that night.
Not Damian.
Me.
I was in the study on the second floor when my phone lit up with a number I had saved since our first meeting at Voss Tower—N. Voss, a label I had chosen to keep deliberately neutral because there wasn’t an appropriate category for someone who was technically my father-in-law but felt more like a talking chessboard.
I stared at the screen for two seconds.
Then answered.
"Mr. Nathan."
"Elara." His voice was the same as always—controlled, polite on the surface, with a depth that could never quite be read from his tone alone. "Sorry to bother you this late."
"You're not bothering me."
"I heard the documents were filed today."
The sentence came out like a simple confirmation—not an accusation, not a threat. Nathan's usual way
