The first thing Rico felt when he opened his eyes wasn’t the warmth of the morning light streaming through the tall windows — it was the stillness. The sheets beneath his hands were smooth and expensive, the faint scent of lavender rising from them, delicate and unfamiliar. For a long moment, he simply lay there, staring up at the ornate ceiling with its intricate gold carvings, trying to remember how he had gotten here — how his life had changed so drastically overnight. Only a few days ago, he had been poor. He had slept on worn-out mattresses, woken up to uncertainty, eaten when he could, and gone to bed not knowing what tomorrow would bring. There had been no one waiting for him, no house, no security. Just a man scraping through the dust of life, pretending not to care that he had nothing. And now… he was here. Inside the ancestral mansion of the West family. He blinked at the ceiling again, as if doing so would make the marble, the gold, the sheer size of everyth

Rico drove along the winding road that led to the outskirts of the city, hands tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the polished leather. Every bump in the asphalt jolted him, echoing unease deep in his chest. Gravel crunched under the tires, a harsh rhythm matching his rapid heartbeat. The scent of leather and his own cologne filled the cabin, a reminder that even wealth and comfort could not quiet the gnawing ache inside him. She had carried him through life’s worst storms, loved him when there was nothing left to love, and he had left her. That memory clawed at him now, sharper than any success he had claimed. And yet, he was here, approaching a modest building that smelled faintly of disinfectant and sorrow, a life paused and quietly decayed. The care center came into view: a low-rise brick building, dull and faded, with curtained windows shielding its fragile inhabitants from the world outside. Above the door, a small sign read Willowbrook Care Cen

Rain was drizzling softly, a thin silver veil falling across the sprawling West estate. The mansion stood against the night like a fortress, cold and unwelcoming, its marble pillars gleaming faintly under the storm’s restless light. Inside, the silence felt heavy, the kind of silence that carried tension rather than peace. In the grand dining hall, the chandeliers glowed weakly against the gathering gloom. The long table stretched across the room, perfectly set but untouched, the crystal glasses reflecting light like sharp blades. The scent of roasted meat and old wine lingered in the air, but no one seemed interested in food. The mood was brittle, ready to shatter at the faintest sound. At the head of the table sat Patriarch Magnus West, his posture commanding and his gaze as cold as steel. He did not raise his voice often, but when he did, the walls seemed to listen. The faint tapping of his fingers on the polished oak table echoed through the vast room, each tap carrying the wei

The morning sun hit the West estate through the large windows, lighting the polished floors and casting a clean glare over the hallways. It was calm outside, but inside the estate, everyone moved with quiet urgency. The staff had been instructed to prepare for the press, and their tension was palpable. Eliron walked alongside Patriarch Magnus in the study, matching his measured steps. Magnus’s expression was flat, controlled, but his presence demanded attention. “Everyone must be ready for the press by noon,” Magnus said without looking at Eliron. “Did they receive the script?” “Yes, Patriarch,” Eliron replied. “Everyone involved has a copy, and the media coordinator has confirmed the schedules.” Magnus paused, then nodded once, sharply. “Good. This press release must go well. No mistakes. Understood?” “Yes, Patriarch,” Eliron said, bowing slightly. Magnus returned to his papers without another word. His eyes skimmed over the top sheet, but his mind was already on the day ahead

The door to Cassandra’s room swung open slowly, revealing Eliron once more. He stood with his usual composed posture, hands folded neatly behind his back. His suit caught the morning light spilling through the window, making him appear almost like a shadow carved into the estate’s polished corridors. “Lady Cassandra,” he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying the weight of unspoken understanding. “I apologize for disturbing you again. There was a matter—” Cassandra’s eyes, red-rimmed but sharp, met his. She swallowed, forcing the tremor from her voice. “If it’s about the press conference, you’ve delivered the message. I’ve made my decision.” Eliron’s lips pressed together briefly, the subtle tightening at his jaw betraying faint concern. “I understand, my lady. I only wished to ensure—” “That I am not going?” she interrupted softly, the edge in her tone a delicate mix of exhaustion and defiance. “Yes. I am quite aware.” He inclined his head slightly, both respectful and atten