The morning sun did not bring warmth to the mansion—only clarity.
It illuminated the dust suspended in the cold air, turning stillness into something accusatory.
Lucien stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his study, gaze fixed on the manicured grounds below. The silk robe was gone, replaced by a perfectly tailored black suit.
An illusion.
Thin lacerations marked his fingers—faint, precise reminders of the crystal glass he had shattered hours ago.
The door clicked open.
Theodore entered, posture flawless, a leather dossier tucked under his arm. He had expected ruin.
Instead, Lucien turned.
Calm. Controlled. Empty.
“Sir,” Theodore said, offering a measured bow. “I’ve initiated discreet inquiries into Vernon’s movements. I’m closing in, but he’s ghosting his usual networks.
