The sun was only just brushing its light across the rooftops when Chance pulled his Bentley Escapade into the winding, ivy-lined driveway of the Warrens’ private estate. The silence of the early morning amplified the soft purr of the engine, its elegance clashing with the calm suburban setting. He was dressed in black—a fine, tailored ensemble that matched the car’s polished body—and his face bore the same unbothered calm it had the night before at Carlton Hotel.He stepped out and rang the bell.When the butler opened the door, Chance didn’t wait for an invitation. “I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Warren,” he said flatly.A few moments later, Mr. Warren and his wife appeared in the doorway. Their faces shifted from mild curiosity to outright disbelief. The man from the party. The boy who was mocked by Rickon and everyone. The same one who handed Chloe a Louis Vuitton Black Widow and walked away with anger after being publicly shamed.And now he was here, standing like he belonged in the