Andrew’s POV
The house was dead quiet when I walked in.
That kind of silence that didn’t mean peace — it meant something was wrong.
I climbed the stairs to my father’s study, my shoes echoing against the marble. The door was half open. Blood pooled on the floor like spilled ink, dark and sticky.
“Andrew…”
Eleanore’s trembling voice made my jaw tighten. Her hair was tangled, a patch of it missing from her scalp, blood running down her cheek.
“What the f**k happened?” I growled.
“It’s nothing,” she whispered, clutching her arm. “Why are you here?”
I scoffed. “Why am I here? You think I can just sit back while he keeps doing this?”
Few days after my mother’s suicide, Eleanore was brought into the house. My father’s new obsession. My mother’s replacement. My stepmother. And his new pu
