The doors thundered open with a force that made every candle tremble. The figure stepped into the hall, tall, sharp and confident. His presence sliced through the tension like a blade honed over years of exile.Kirra, caught between shock and the crackling air, whispered, “Who is that?”Miles’s mouth twitched in a wild, disbelieving grin. “Option A,” he muttered. “The nuclear option.”Rowan’s face drained. “You.”The man stepped into the candlelight, revealing hard-cut features, eyes like polished steel, and a scar running from the corner of his jaw to the edge of his collar.He smiled, slow and lethal.“Hello, Rowan,” he said. “Still pretending you run this family?”Gasps hissed around the room.Kirra felt Connor’s grip tighten on her hand until his knuckles whitened.Rowan’s voice cracked once before he wrestled it back under control. “You were banned from this estate.”“Yes,” the man said, unbothered. “And yet, here I am.”Miriam pushed to her feet, stiff and pale. “How did you ge

Connor, Kirra, Cassian, and Miles were the only ones remaining when the last echo faded. Connor’s breath was steady, but his eyes carried the storm he was holding back. Cassian scanned the hall as if confirming that every shadow had retreated. Miles wiped a sheen of nervous sweat from his brow.“They are not done,” Cassian murmured. “They are wounded. A wounded Waratah does not hide. It lunges.”Connor nodded once. “Then let them. They cannot touch us now.”Miles stepped forward. “Actually, they might try something desperate. Rowan does not lose cleanly. He—”His words cut off when the east doors slammed open so hard one of the candles toppled.Every head snapped toward the sound.Charles Waratah entered first. His silver hair gleamed under the chandelier, and his face—usually carved with cold disdain—was stretched with panic.Behind him, Frederick stumbled in, followed by three board members who looked like they had run through a storm.Miriam was not with them.Rowan was not either.