Peace did not arrive gently.
It arrived like a foreign object lodged under Charles’s skin.
The mansion had settled into a rhythm that should have been comforting—morning light pouring through tall windows, the quiet thud of footsteps on marble, the distant sound of laughter when the child ran through the halls. Staff moved carefully, respectfully. Security had been reduced, not eliminated, but softened.
Everything signaled safety.
And Charles had never felt more exposed.
He woke before dawn most mornings, heart already racing, body tense as if braced for impact that never came. His instincts—sharpened by years of threat and control—searched endlessly for danger.
None appeared.
That was the problem.
Victoria noticed first.
She found him standing on the terrace one morning, staring
