A crisp autumn light slanted through the glass façade of Aureum Market—an elite supermarket favored by the city’s most powerful families—casting diamond blooms across the polished marble floors. Lilian Lawson stepped inside, the chime above the door announcing her arrival. She paused to take in the gleaming deli counters, the rows of exotic cheeses, the lush displays of Japanese fruits, and the hushed elegance of patrons in tailor‐made coats. Even the shopping carts boasted leather handles and chrome frames.She turned a corner and froze: Silas Lancaster stood at the extreme end near the wine cellar, flanked by a broad‐shouldered man in a tailored black suit—his unmistakable chauffeur‐turned‐bodyguard. Silas, dressed in a navy cashmere overcoat, held two bottles of rare Bordeaux as he approached the checkout. The cashiers at the register smiled at him with an almost flirtatious warmth—one even teased, “Mr. Lancaster, back so soon? I saved a bottle of that 1959 for you.”Lilian’s

The late‐afternoon sun slanted through the glass atrium of Lancaster Industries’ lobby, painting soft gold pools on the marble floor as Nancy clipped her badge back into her pocket. She offered warm smiles to the custodial staff emerging from the supply closet, one carrying a mop and another wheeling a cart stacked with cleaning supplies.“Good evening, Mr. Santos! Ms. DeVries!” Nancy greeted, voice bright. “Thank you for all your hard work today.”They nodded gratefully, and Nancy slipped through the turnstiles. Beyond the security doors, she strode to the curb, where a line of black cabs idled in the fading light. She raised a hand—just one—when the nearest driver signaled and flushed the throttle.“Home Care,” she instructed, “at St. Margaret’s Elderly Home, please.”The taxi eased into traffic, and Nancy settled back against the leather seat. Through the tinted window, the city’s financial district—glass towers and bustling sidewalks—melted into tree‐lined avenues and Victorian

A low fog crept along the manicured hedges of the Ashcroft Wing as lanterns flickered to life, illuminating the mansion’s ivy-clad façade. Inside, the Left Faction of House Lancaster gathered once more in the cavernous council chamber. The carved mahogany table, scarred from decades of deliberation, gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Skylight panels overhead had been drawn shut, leaving only candlelight to dance across the ancestral portraits lining the walls—stern visages of Lancasters past, their eyes seemingly following each guest’s movement.Lord Cedric Beaumont sat at the head of the table, his silver hair catching the candlelight like molten metal. Beside him, Lady Eleanor Winthrop tapped her ivory cane against the polished floor. Sir Alden Meyers reclined in his chair, cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling. Baroness Celeste von Klaus, Sir Humphrey Stanton, and several younger scions of the faction—Lord Henri Duval, Lady Rosalind Darcy—completed the circle.

The grandfather clock in the corner struck two in the morning, its chime rolling through the marble halls of Mat Lancaster’s private wing. Outside, a high wind rattled the leaded glass windows, stirring the potted palms that flanked the door. Inside, the heavy thump of leather on stone drowned out the storm’s whisper.Mat Lancaster stood shirtless beneath the harsh glare of overhead industrial lamps. His private gym—an expansive room of polished teak floors, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and rows of state-of-the-art equipment—felt like a cathedral to discipline. A full boxing ring rested in the center, its ropes creaking softly in the draft.But Mat paid no heed to the ring. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, fists balled, and struck the reinforced concrete wall with merciless force. Each punch echoed, sounding like a drumroll of anger. His knuckles reddened, sweat beading on his brow, trickling down his chest in warm rivulets.Again and again: wall, fist, wall, fist

Morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lancaster Industries’ executive suite, illuminating the rows of neatly organized files and the sleek mahogany desk where Silas Lancaster sat, head buried in quarterly projections. The hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of staff beyond the glass walls formed the steady backdrop of corporate life.Silas’s pen scratched across line after line of numbers when the door to his office opened silently—a signal he’d come to recognize. He didn’t look up. “How can I help you?” he called, voice steady.Nancy slipped in, the soft click of her heels the only hint of her entry. “You have a visitor, sir.” She closed the door behind her with a gentle hush.At last, Silas raised his head. Nancy stood beside a young woman in her mid-twenties: tall, elegant, with chestnut hair cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. Her emerald-green dress hugged her curves, the silk fabric catching the light as she moved. A pair of pearl